Scars
by Reckless
Summary: Getting trapped in a hostage situation leads to major changes and discoveries for Face. This story was recently named Best Epic and was second place in the Best Overall Story category in the Second Annual Virtual Asylum Story Awards. Be warned, this is
1. Default Chapter Title

Title: Scars   
Author: Reckless (weisel@mediaone.net)   
Copyright: 2000   
Disclaimer: The A-Team characters belong to Stephen J. Cannell and Universal.   
Warning: Violence, angst, swearing, h/c, war memories, death, severe mental distress.  One of the later parts will depict     torture and non-consensual sex (m/m).  This story is not pornographic in the least, but it does deal with adult     themes and I like to give fair warnings in advance so readers are not surprised.

 _____________________________________________________________________   
  


**_Scars, Part 1_**   
  
  


Face cursed his luck. What was it about Italian restaurants? And why did he always get the worst of it when Hannibal's plans went wrong? He was just supposed to walk in the restaurant, sit down and get the lay of the land. But now this. 

"Nobody try to be a hero," said the thug, a large brown-haired man holding an Uzi. He made a special point of glaring directly at Face while he spoke. Probably a response to the fact Face had tripped the man earlier, allowing six people to escape and getting Face a large gash on his forehead for his efforts. The end result was that Face was now sitting in a small hallway with seven other hostages listening as the police bullhorns outside urged the goons to give up and release the captives. Putting on a brave show for the others, Face made his best effort to grin at the thug. 

When he saw that the goon had turned away, Face decided to take a chance of contacting Hannibal. He whispered, quietly so as not to be heard by the gunmen, but loud enough to be heard over the hidden microphone. 

"Hannibal . . . Can you hear me?" 

A flood of relief flowed through him when he heard the colonel's voice in his ear. "Hey kid. Can't we take you anywhere without you causing trouble?" Without waiting for Face's response to the jibe, Hannibal's voice became serious. "Report, Lieutenant." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Face made sure the thug was far enough away before he replied. Face knew the other hostages were watching him, so he hastily hissed at them. "Don't look this way." Lowering his voice further, he described the situation. "Two gunmen. Uzis. Semis, not converted. Not sure what they're looking for. Roughed up the maitre d' pretty good. Nine hostages total. Eight here in hallway by the entrance. At least four dead inside." 

At least that was how many he had seen when the brown-haired thug had dragged Face out of the back room of the restaurant. Face could tell what Hannibal was probably thinking. If the thugs had already killed four people, they wouldn't be too concerned about killing the rest. 

"So what brought the cops out?" 

"A waitress and the kitchen staff managed to get out a back door." 

He could almost see Hannibal smile and he flushed slightly as Hannibal commented, "I can probably guess who made that possible." Then, Face detected a serious note in his leader's voice. "Listen kid. We're trying to get close, but I don't think we're going to have much luck with all those cops out there. You may have to handle this yourself. Are you armed?" 

Not wanting to alert anyone, Face discreetly answered, "yes, shoulder," so that Hannibal would know that the goons hadn't taken the .357 from the shoulder holster. Hannibal would understand. Thugs like these rarely used their brains for anything more than finding an entrance. 

"Okay, kid. Got it. I'll get back to you." 

Face looked over the seven other hostages. Directly across from him was a barely conscious waiter who had taken a blow to the side of his head. To his side was an overweight middle-aged man, who looked ready to have a heart attack and, from the look (and smell) of things, had already soiled his tailored suit. Probably a lawyer, Face thought. No help there. Next to the lawyer was an equally middle-aged woman -- probably the lawyer's wife -- and the pretty blond hostess with the large dark eyes with whom Face had flirted when he came into the restaurant. He sighed. Though the hostess had some of the most soulful eyes he had ever seen, neither she nor the other woman would be particularly helpful in a fight. 

He studied the other three hostages in the hallway, two teenagers and their mother. Face remembered how the teens had been bickering at the table next to him. He just hoped they could keep their mouths shut until this was all over. So far, they had. The girl, who he guessed was thirteen, was curled up and crying in her mom's lap. The older teen, a boy who seemed catatonic, probably wasn't much younger than Face had been in Vietnam. Still, Face thought, I can't risk using him. 

From the front of the restaurant, Face heard a sharp cry. Probably the maitre d'. He wasn't sure what the thugs were after, but they obviously figured the maitre d' knew about it. Well, from what Face could hear, the maitre d' wasn't going to be any help either. 

Shit, Face thought, I'm on my own. 

Very slowly, almost imperceptively, he pulled his gun from his holster and set it down on the ground. A sudden movement from across the hall made him realize that the mom had seen him. Wide-eyed, she stared transfixed at where he'd set the gun. Cursing himself when the brown-haired goon started walking back towards them, Face feared the woman would start a panic or, in a mistaken attempt to save their lives, reveal that he had the gun. 

Calmly, he looked the woman in the eye and tried to send her a mental message. Trust me, he urged. Then, he twitched his lips and cheeks slightly in the direction of the thug. Somehow she got the message and looked away. Letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding, Face saw that the brown-haired goon had missed the exchange. Face also realized that the thug was sweating profusely and looking extremely nervous. 

"So Chuck, how're they doing?" That must have been the second goon speaking. At least, Face figured, I now have a name for Mr. Sweaty-Brown-Haired-Thug. 

Before Chuck could reply, the second goon came into view, allowing Face his first close look at the guy. From his thinning blond hair, yellow eyes and acne, Face could tell the guy was a serious steroids case. Granted, that he was 6'3 and musclebound helped in the assessment. Great, Face thought, two guys who both outweigh me by at least sixty pounds and one of them is likely to go into 'roid rage. Cursing his luck again, he wondered why BA couldn't get these assignments. 

"They're quiet right now," said Chuck. "But shit, Joe, what the fuck are we going to do? I'm not doing a murder rap. This was gonna be easy. Remember? Remember what he said? Get the package and get out. Now we're fucked. The fuckin' gas chamber." 

The blond steroid case -- Joe -- snapped. "Shut up, Chuck. If ya hadn't let the hero over there trip you up, we woulda been outta here before anyone noticed. But you fucked it up. So damn it, shut up." 

"Hey. Asshole. You're the one who started blowin' holes in people! What the fuck did ya think you was doin'?!?" 

"THEY PISSED ME OFF!" Joe momentarily let the steroids take effect. "Now just shut the hell up! Calm the fuck down, damn it! Okay! We're gonna get out of this! I told the cops we want a car, so we're gonna each take a fuckin' hostage for cover and take off." 

Face listened to Joe think out loud. "Thug logic" was how Hannibal would have succinctly put it. 

"SO CALM THE FUCK DOWN, CHUCK!!!" 

Joe did not exactly seem to be the "calming" influence. If anything, Chuck was getting more antsy. Face could see the thug's trigger finger flexing involuntarily. He could only hope Chuck's gun wasn't pointed at someone when it accidentally went off. Actually, reconsidering that thought, Face hoped the gun would be pointed at Joe. 

As the minutes ticked away, Face's uneasiness grew. He had not heard from Hannibal since that initial contact. Finally, after what his watch said was 30 minutes, but felt like 30 hours, Face heard the colonel's familiar voice in his ear. 

"Face, come in. Can you hear me?" 

Seeing that Chuck was too close for him to answer, Face sniffled, trying to make it look like he had allergies caused by the October winds. 

"Okay. You can't talk. So listen. BA and Murdock are on the roof, but it could take some time to get to you. The cops are pulling up a car, so there should be movement soon." 

Face understood Hannibal's words, but he also understood what Hannibal wasn't saying. Movement might occur before BA and Murdock were able to help. 

"Face. The car is a four-door sedan. It's not big enough for all of the hostages. Can you tell me if you think the gunmen are going to let the others go?" 

Face looked at Chuck, who was nearly bouncing around with the Uzi, and at Joe who was studying the approaching car with a grim determination. Face coughed, hoping that Hannibal could catch the hidden "no" over the microphone. 

"Damn, kid. This is my fault. If we can't get to you in time, do what you can to protect the others. Try to stall as much as you can. Give us as much time as you can." 

Face could tell from the approaching goons that time was running out. Chuck was dragging the semi-conscious maitre-d'. 

Joe and Chuck were now facing the eight people in the hallway. Joe motioned to the pretty blond hostess. For some reason, her name suddenly came back to Face: Allison. "I've got her," Joe told Chuck. "You keep the maitre d'. That way, if he remembers anything, he'll still be alive to tell us. Get rid of these others." 

Before Chuck could aim his gun, Face piped up. "Aww, guys. Why don't you let them go? You don't need more blood on your hands" 

"Shut up hero. I'm going to enjoy wasting you," Chuck replied. 

Face fell back to plan B. "How 'bout a business proposition?" 

"What the fuck would you have fo' us?" said Joe coming back to the hallway. He was holding the terrified blond woman in front of him. That was going to make things harder. Not only was he going to have shoot over all of these other people, but he was also going to have to shoot around the girl. 

"What about the A-Team? There's a pretty big price on their heads and I know where you can find them." He gave the two thugs his most winning smile. "I'm sure a couple of capable guys like you could take them out." 

"The A-Team? Huh, Joe. That would be somethin'." 

"Shut up Chuck. He's bluffing. There's no way a dick like this would know the A-Team. Their mercs, not pretty boys like this guy." 

"Ahh, but even the A-Team needs an agent." He flashed the smile again. After all, this was Los Angeles and he could probably convince these bozos that he was an agent. "Think about it. Chuck. Joe. You'd be heroes. The men who captured the A-Team. Let the hostages live and I'll lead you to them." 

He could tell that Joe was studying him. His right hand gripped the gun, which was still hidden from sight by his coat sleeve and the lawyer. Face stealthily pulled it into his sleeve, so that it would be easy to use if necessary. As he finished the little task, Joe nodded his head. 

"Okay, pretty boy. You've got a deal," Joe lied. 

Nobody in the room believed the thug. The teenage girl began wailing louder. 

Joe gave a quick smirk to Chuck, who continued to aim the rifle at Face. Motioning to Face, Joe said, "Come here. I guess we'll take three hostages and the rest of these good people will be free to go." 

As Face stood and began to walk past the others, the mom grabbed his leg. "Please," she begged, "you know they're lying. Please don't leave us here." Face couldn't look at her.  He just pulled his leg free.  The lawyer behind Face call him a coward, but he ignored it. At that moment, Face wondered what had happened to BA and Murdock. It should not have taken them so long to get down from the roof. 

"You go first." Joe held the hostess close to him and motioned for Face to move to the front and lead them to the door. "Walk slowly in front of us." 

As Face moved past the two thugs, he heard Joe's voice behind his right shoulder. "What are you waiting for? Waste them." 

Face dropped the gun from his sleeve and spun around to his left. Chuck had his back to Face and was preparing to fire. With no option, Face aimed for the brown hair and pulled the trigger. Before Chuck's head had finished exploding, Face had turned the gun in the other thug's direction. 

That's when he discovered Joe had never turned to face the hostages. 

The bullet slamming into his left shoulder spun Face around. He lost his balance at the very instant he fired and missed his target. Sprawling, Face felt another bullet whiz by him and realized that the first shot had knocked him out of the path of the second. Face also knew that he would only have one more chance before Joe got a lock on him. Seeing that the blond man had lost his human shield, Face quickly aimed and fired. He didn't need to see the other man fall to know his aim had been true. 

It was a good thing. Face suddenly noticed a searing pain in his right side.  He lurched, trying to remain on his feet, but failed.   As he collapsed to the floor, landing solidly on the ground near the door, Face knew he had only a moment before he lost consciousness. But before the blackness overtook him, he looked across the floor straight into the wide, brown eyes of the blond hostess. 

Even if he hadn't seen the hole in her forehead, he would have known she was dead. 

A sudden thought crossed his mind. "I killed her . . ." 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


BA and Murdock were in the ventilation shaft when they heard the shots. Five or six quick bursts and then no more. Knowing there was no longer any point in keeping quiet or trying to reach the hostages through the shaft, they found the quickest exit, landed in the kitchen and raced for the front of the building. As they entered the restaurant, they saw a middle-aged man shouting from the front door to the police outside. 

"We need help in here . . . Get a doctor . . ." 

Rushing forward, they saw the limp figure lying against the wall. Face's slight build and blond hair were unmistakable. 

Without pause, Murdock slid down next to Face and quickly assessed his best friend's condition. 

Face was deathly pale. His shoulder was bleeding profusely and, from the location, Murdock thought the bullet had struck a lung. The second wound was to the abdomen. Murdock needed only one look at it to tell that the bullet had done serious internal damage. Face needed to get to a hospital right away. 

"You . . . you must be the A-Team," said a woman who was huddled in the corner. "He mentioned the A-Team . . ." Murdock saw that she was cradling two kids who were nearly hysterical. 

Through his ear, Murdock heard Hannibal's voice. "Face, Murdock, BA, the cops are about to storm the place. You'd better get out of there now." 

"Hannibal" was all Murdock could say. He knew the colonel would pick up the shaking in his voice. 

"Oh God." Hannibal was silent for a moment. "Is he alive?" 

"He needs a doctor. He'll die unless . . ." Murdock couldn't finish the sentence. 

Murdock then heard the words he never thought the colonel would utter. "Captain, Sergeant. You have to leave him . . . It's the only way. You two have to get out of there now. Hurry." 

Years of ingrained training struggled with his conscience. Murdock knew this would be far more difficult than the last time he left a wounded comrade. He also knew his training would win out, but he had to give Face some hope. The pilot quickly removed the listening device from Face's ear. Then, putting his mouth close, Murdock whispered, "We'll be back for you buddy. We won't abandon you. Fight this." 

As he started to pull away, Murdock saw Face move his lips. "I killed her, Murdock . . . I killed her." 

Murdock could feel the tears start. He didn't want to leave Face in this condition, but he had no choice. Turning to the woman with the kids, Murdock begged, "Please make sure they take care of him. We're his friends . . . but please, don't let anyone know we were here . . . It's his only hope." 

Tears streaming down his face, the training finally won out. Murdock leapt up and ran after BA, hoping they could reach the ventilation shaft before the police entered the building. The stunned survivors watched him leave. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Over the next two days, details of the "Il Trovatore Shootout" rapidly emerged. Local television, which had been live on the scene during the hostage situation, switched their attention to Cedars Sinai Medical Center. At all hours, they broadcast "live and breaking" news from the hospital, repeatedly reporting that the condition of the heroic man identified only as Jacob Temple was unchanged. He remained in critical condition, unconscious following life-saving surgery. 

A candle-light vigil, led by an elderly priest from a downtown orphanage and a couple of local rabbis who assumed from his name that the hero must be Jewish, became the place to be seen. Or so a couple of B-list celebs seemed to think. 

The other participants in the little drama became overnight celebrities. Richard Lattimore, managing partner of Roberts, Lattimore & Stone, the large, conservative law firm downtown, gave several television interviews. He repeatedly praised Jacob Temple for saving the lives of the hostages and even went so far as to admit that he was ashamed that he had momentarily thought Jacob Temple was a coward. Lattimore failed to mention what had become of his suit. 

Others also spoke out. A few members of the kitchen staff described how a blond man who must have been Jacob Temple had blocked the path of the gunmen, allowing them to escape out the back door. A waiter, Roberto Davino, described how Jacob Temple had tricked the gunmen into letting him move for a clearer shot. The two teenagers, Joey and Jennifer Samuels, peppering their interview with terms like "awesome" and "killer," claimed they weren't scared because they saw how cool and calm Jacob Temple had stayed. The boy referred to him as a "real-life Rambo." 

None of the survivors mentioned the large black man with the chains or the crying man in the leather jacket and baseball cap. 

On the third day, the tenor of the news broadcasts started to change. Although the news crews continued to report from the hospital -- "no change" -- they began mentioning the "mystery" of the man at the middle of the news storm. A few "business associates" of Jacob Temple came forward to be interviewed about their recent dealings with the man, but where was the grieving wife? Parents? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Reporters tried to find out where the man had gone to school and grown up, but they found nothing. The man seemed to have no past, reporters breathlessly told their viewers, having emerged from the shadows to save the lives of complete strangers in the restaurant. Even his car had somehow disappeared from the Il Trovatore valet. 

Then Channel 7 reported that the police had visited Jacob Temple's apartment only to find it empty. The furniture was still there, but every personal belonging appeared to have been removed. Reporters could not even find a photograph of the man to run on their evening broadcasts. The mystery deepened. 

Also on the third day, Allison Chandler, the unfortunate restaurant hostess who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, was buried in a private service at Forest Lawn. Her grieving parents in Sherman Oaks refused to speak to the press. The police report on her death conveniently omitted any mention of the calibre of bullet that killed her and none of the reporters thought to ask. Why would they when they had a "mystery" to report? 

On the fourth day, the early morning arrival of a large detachment of military police alerted the reporters at the hospital that something was going on. By noon, the rumor was rampant: Jacob Temple was not Jacob Temple; he was Templeton Peck, member of the mysterious A-Team. Archivists rushed to gather their A-Team files, publishing photographs from the trial right before the team's supposed execution. Speculation had always existed that the A-Team had escaped the firing squad, but now there was proof. Richard Lattimore and Roberto Davino confirmed that the blond lieutenant in the photos was the man who had saved their lives in the Il Trovatore shootout. 

The military leader at the hospital, a Colonel Roderick Decker, officially confirmed the report just before prime time. He announced that the fingerprints of Jacob Temple matched the fugitive Lieutenant Templeton Peck. He told the press that the detachment of military police had cordoned off the area surrounding Lieutenant Peck's room. When the man awoke, he would be formally arrested and placed in military custody. His execution for murdering Colonel Samuel Morrison would be carried out forthwith. 

The response was like wildfire. Out of the woodwork came hundreds of people with stories of how the A-Team, and Templeton Peck -- Los Angeles' newest hero -- had saved them, their property or their neighbors from brutal mobsters, vicious gangs or rural tyrants. 

Amnesty International declared Templeton Peck a "prisoner of conscience" and announced a worldwide letter-writing campaign. A letter from the Vatican decrying the penalty made its way to Washington. 

By day five, a large crowd had gathered at the Federal Building in Westwood. Signs calling for a pardon for the A-Team and Templeton Peck in particular were rampant. Concession makers sold camouflage ribbons for $2.00 apiece. Richard Lattimore spoke at the rally and promised to use his contacts in the Bush administration to work for the man who had saved his life. 

From the grounds of the Veteran's Administration hospital just down the road and over the 405 freeway, the chants of "Free Peck" could be heard plainly. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on how one looked at it), the one man who might have been most affected by the chant, Captain H.M. Murdock, had long since disappeared from the grounds. Not realizing the connection between the psychotic Murdock and the heroic Peck, the press failed to mention Murdock in their reports. 

On day six, the crowd gathered on Beverly Boulevard outside the hospital. It booed the armed soldiers. It chanted and prayed for the injured lieutenant. Veterans groups held banners pleading for the nation to pardon the A-Team as a sign of healing the rift left by Vietnam. Reporters interviewed old soldiers who called for the pardon, particularly in light of the current military build-up in the Persian Gulf. The young communists argued that Templeton Peck was a victim of military imperialism, the same forces that were about to wage an imperialist war in Iraq. Even the everyday Joe on the streets criticized the treatment of the hero, though most of them could barely spell Iraq let alone discuss its impact on the Templeton Peck case. What was clear is that people from all walks of life uniformly agreed that the A-Team should go free. The reporters lapped it up, always concluding with the same questions: What was going to happen to the heroic Templeton Peck and where were his comrades, the A-Team? 

On the seventh day, Templeton Peck woke up. 

His world would never be the same. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


"I killed her" was his first thought. 

"Where am I?" was his second. 

He heard beeping and whooshing and when he opened his eyes, he saw a white light. Was he dead? No, he thought, probably not. He couldn't imagine God tormenting the angels with those damn beeping and whooshing noises. 

A hospital. The light bulb went off in his head. I must be in a hospital. He tried to turn his head, but discovered the large tubes feeding into his nose and throat. Uh, oh, he thought, this can't be good. 

"Doctor, come quick. I think he's awake." 

"Mr. Peck, can you hear me?" Face looked up into the dark eyes of a beautiful Asian doctor. Japanese, he thought, judging by her facial structure. Looking at the way her hair was severely pulled back in a ponytail and the authoritative air around her, he mentally noted the she was definitely not his type. 

He tried to talk, but stopped when he realized it was futile. Instead, he nodded slightly. 

"Good. I'm Doctor Tanaka." She paused as she started to explain the rest. "Mr. Peck, do you remember what happened?" 

His blank look probably answered her question. 

"Mr. Peck, you've been seriously injured. You've been unconscious for nearly a week. Do you remember being shot? 

Actually, no. He did not remember. 

"You were shot twice at close range with a high power firearm. The first shot shattered your scapula -- your shoulder blade." 

He nodded at that. So that explained why his arm was bound to his side. 

"We performed surgery to repair some arterial damage and to reset the bone. You were very fortunate, Mr. Peck. That bullet barely missed your lung. If it had hit, I very much doubt that you would be here today. Your shoulder and the surrounding muscles will be painful and weak for a while, but other than some possible residual stiffness, you will probably make a full recovery from those injuries. The second bullet, on the other hand . . ." 

Why didn't he like where this was leading? 

"That bullet struck your midsection, close to where it looks like you had an earlier injury." 

Just my luck with Italian restaurants. The thought just popped into his mind. Wait. What about Italian restaurants? He remembered being shot at Villa Cuccina in D.C., but he knew that wasn't the whole story. 

"The second bullet did significant damage to your large intestine, the transverse colon to be exact, and your stomach. We managed to repair a lot of the damage in surgery, but we had to remove a section of the intestine. You also have suffered some damage to your right kidney, but we don't think we'll have to remove it. At the moment, we cannot know the long-term effects of those injuries. Nonetheless, I would say that, overall, you're very lucky to be alive Mr. Peck." 

Yeah, he figured. Then it dawned on him. Il Trovatore. The gunmen. He remembered. Yeah, I am lucky. I'm lucky those bozos didn't know how to convert their guns to full automatic. I should have been cut in half. 

Suddenly, he saw the blond woman's dark eyes staring at him from behind the doctor. He saw the hole in her forehead and instinctively knew there was a much larger hole in the back. "No!" he mind screamed. He tried to block out the thought -- "I killed her" -- but it was useless. "I was trying to save her, but I killed her." Though he couldn't speak, he could hear himself howling the words in his head. 

"I killed her. I killed her." 

Noticing that her patient was shaking and starting to get restless, Doctor Tanaka tried to calm him. "Mr. Peck. Please. You must try to stay still and rest. Please. Don't move." 

His right hand jerked up and he was startled from his internal strife when he heard a clang of metal. His arm felt like it had struck a wall, but he couldn't see what had happened. As he felt his arm fall flat back on the bed, he looked quizzically at the doctor. 

Before she could answer his unasked question, the truth dawned on him. "Mr. Peck, your right arm and left leg have been shackled to your bed. There are military police immediately outside both doors, monitoring the halls and guarding every exit on this floor." 

As she paused, his mind flashed to the team. What had happened to them? BA and Murdock were in the restaurant, but had not been able to get to him in time. Had they been captured? Did the army have them in custody? He barely heard her continue. 

"My understanding is that, when you have recovered a bit more, you will be taken into custody . . . Then you will be executed." 

Her last words got his attention. 

The doctor leaned over him and looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry. I will keep you here as long as possible, but there is nothing I can do. Please don't try to escape. You are in no condition to run and I have already patched up enough bullet holes." 

He could see in her eyes that she was trying not to cry, so he simply nodded. As she left, he silently promised that he would not try anything stupid. He wasn't going to get anyone else killed. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Hannibal sat in the motel room, his mind replaying the events of the past week. 

They had gone to the hospital almost immediately after the shooting, but they had not been able to see Face. Security was high even before Face's true identity became public. With all the media trying to report on the wounded hero, a taskforce from the LAPD, Beverly Hills PD and West Hollywood Sheriff's Department had converged to cover the hospital grounds and keep the press away. That many police, plus the nosy reporters, made it too likely that someone would recognize him or BA. And with Murdock' fear and worry driving the captain to the cusp of madness, Hannibal had decided that they could not leave Murdock behind. 

"No way, Hannibal. I'm not leaving," Murdock had insisted, waving the red and blue bird in the air. "Me and Woody are staying right here." 

"Captain, there is nothing we can do. It's too dangerous. The cops are going to start wondering why three men are hanging around here and they're going to start asking questions." 

"We can't leave Face alone, Hannibal. I promised." There had been a seriousness in his tone not normally associated with grown men waving hand puppets. 

"We cain't do anything for the Facemen right now, ya crazy fool," BA had intervened before Hannibal could respond. "The Faceman ain't even awake if the news is tellin' the truth." 

"Murdock, BA is right. We're not doing Face any good here. And we won't be able to do him any good if we get spotted and thrown in jail." Trying to sound convincing, Hannibal also had added, "We'll be able to keep tabs on Face from outside the hospital." 

"No." Murdock had flatly insisted, as he crossed his arms in front of him like a child throwing a tantrum. "I'm not leaving." 

Hannibal had motioned to BA, who walked over to the smaller captain and picked him up. 

"Ya shouldn't go arguin' with Hannibal like that, fool. We gotta go and you're comin' with us."

As BA had carried a struggling Murdock off to the parked van, Hannibal had done his best to find out about Face's condition. It had proven nearly impossible because the staff instantly assumed any questions about the injured man were being asked by reporters. All he had learned was that Face was in intensive care and might still die. Coupled with Murdock's descriptions of the lieutenant's wounds, Hannibal knew there was no hope of moving Face. They had to let the doctors repair Face's injuries and pray for the best. 

Hannibal had held out the slim hope that Face's true identity would not be discovered, but that hope had been dashed quickly. Looking back on his decision, the colonel knew that he really had no choice, but he still felt like they had left Face behind. 

It had always been an unspoken promise among the team. No one would ever be left behind. 

They had broken that promise only once -- not by choice -- when Stockwell had ordered them to leave Frankie. It was on that day that Hannibal concluded they could no longer live under Stockwell's yoke. That day, the colonel decided the team would be better off on the run. Better than continuing with Stockwell's suicide missions in the faint hope of pardons that might never come. So, on their very next suicide mission, the A-Team had disappeared. 

For the last eight months, Hannibal had entertained no second thoughts about that decision. Despite the renewed military presence chasing after them, there had been renewed life in the team. Face, in particular, had begun to let go of the simmering anger that had marked their two-year confinement in Langley. Hannibal knew that Face relished their newfound freedom, even if it meant returning to a life on the run. 

Now, for the first time since they had left, Hannibal found himself regretting the decision. He had been forced to leave another man behind and it was the hardest decision he had ever made. 

Hannibal knew that no matter how much he had liked Frankie, Frankie was never really one of the team. This time, though, they had abandoned Face. And the thought of losing his lieutenant ripped at Hannibal's soul. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


"Amy! What's the latest?" Murdock knew his concern was evident as he asked the reporter to update them. Since Face had been shot, Amy had been using her press pass to act as the team's eyes and ears. 

"According to the last briefing, Face regained consciousness about two hours ago and is resting. He's still critical, but stable. The hospital spokesman said that he understands his condition and the military presence, but is unaware of the situation outside the building." 

"How can that be, Amy?" asked Murdock. "With all those folks chanting, shouldn't he be able to hear it?" 

"Not really," she answered. "Face is in an internal room on the sixth floor. It's normally used as a surgical prep room, but Decker insisted that it be converted. He claimed it was more defensible than a room with a window." 

Hannibal inhaled on his cigar. "Well, can't fault Rod for trying. True, it will make things more difficult, but we'll figure something out. Amy, did you get any sense of how long Face's going to be in there?" 

"Not really. The military is preventing the hospital from releasing that information. National security." 

National security my ass, Murdock thought. Probably Decker's promotion. The pilot looked at Hannibal expectantly. 

"For now, we're going to have to leave Face where he is." 

"No-no-no-no-no, Hannibal. That's not good enough," Murdock retorted. "I promised Face that we wouldn't abandon him." 

"We're not abandoning him, Captain. Right now, he's probably not in any shape to be moved and we're not in a position to go get him. Charging in there now would be suicide. Think of this as a strategic pause for some recon. Right now we need some more information." 

Hannibal turned to the reporter and took another drag on his cigar. "Amy, can you try to talk to Face's doctor? See what you can dredge up. Maybe the Los Angeles Courier can get an exclusive with the 'doctor who saved the hero of Il Trovatore.'" 

"I'll see what I can do." She smiled. Murdock knew it was more for his sake than the colonel's. 

"Murdock," Hannibal instructed. "Go get some rest. When BA gets back with the hospital floorplans, we'll start working on a way of getting to Face." 

Murdock thoughts turned to his best friend lying in the hospital. Face was probably terrified. 

"Hang in there, muchacho," he thought. "Hang in there." 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Time passed slowly in the hospital. The first few days were the worst. For someone whose lifeline was his ability to convince people that the sky was green and the grass was blue, being unable to talk was a nightmare. Almost as much as the dark brown eyes of the apparition that he kept seeing before him. 

Moreover, with one arm in a sling and the other shackled, Face couldn't even write. He felt completely helpless. 

Thankfully, once it was clear he could breathe on his own, they took the ventilator away. The next day, Dr. Tanaka decided they could take out the feeding tube. It took nearly a day longer before Face's throat felt good enough to speak. Unfortunately, that was right about the time that Decker decided it was time to start gloating. 

"Good morning, soldier." 

Face rolled his eyes. Decker was going to play "military prisoner" and refuse to use Face's name or rank. 

"Go away, Rod." Face croaked. He knew that using Decker's first name would get under the other man's skin. 

"That's 'Colonel' to you, soldier." 

"Yeah. Right. So tell me. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Rod?" 

Face nearly laughed when he saw how red-faced Decker was getting, but he knew he wasn't going to like what the colonel was going to say. Finally composing himself, Decker pulled himself to his full height and announced: 

"Lieutenant Templeton Arthur Peck, you are under arrest. You will be taken to the United States Army Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas where you will be executed by firing squad." 

Face tried to suppress the glare in his eyes. He knew the smug colonel was enjoying this opportunity probably more than any in his lifetime. So much, in fact, that Decker forgot about the name thing as he hissed, "Yes, Peck, you're a murderer, a thief and a liar. The world will be a far better place without you. Notwithstanding your little stunt at the restaurant." 

The mere mention of the shootout sobered Face. His anger and desire to mock Decker dissipated in an instant. Silently, he just stared at the ceiling. The same thought kept running through his mind . . . I killed her . . . I killed her . . . 

"What? No glib response, Peck? I was expecting more from you." 

Face just remained silent, trying to drown out the voice in his head. 

"Funny, figuring you've only got a few more weeks to live, I thought you'd probably want to get everything out of your system now." 

Face said nothing. 

Decker leaned over Face and growled. "Tell me where Smith and Baracus are." 

Even though the words meant that the team had escaped, and should have cheered him, Face barely heard them over the anguished cry in his head. He did not respond. 

Decker, apparently tiring of his sport and realizing that his target wasn't going to answer, turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back at the man lying shackled to the bed. "We'll talk again, soldier. Soon." 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Once outside Peck's room, Decker leaned against the wall. Something about that exchange troubled him. Peck initially had behaved exactly like Decker expected: exactly like Smith behaved in the brief periods when Decker believed he had captured the A-Team. Especially in his weakened condition, Peck should have made an extra effort to tried to needle his captor as if to show that his injuries were superficial. 

But instead, Peck had simply clammed up and seemed to disappear into himself. 

Admittedly, Decker did not know as much about Peck as he knew about Smith. When he had known Smith in Vietnam, Decker had paid scant attention to the babyfaced lieutenant. He had known Peck's reputation -- the smart-ass, know-it-all con artist who stayed out of the brig only by the grace of his commanding officer -- but that was about it. All he knew about Peck after the war was a collection of phony names and scams. The silent, brooding man in the hospital room did not jibe with any of Peck's known behavior. 

Maybe we just don't know as much as we thought. Certainly, the army knew very little about Peck's life before he joined the army. Add nearly twenty years on the run and who knows how the man was supposed to act? 

Something still nagged at Decker, though. Something told him that there was something very wrong with his prisoner. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Dr. Nancy Tanaka was pissed. First, she had to get past the news crews and demonstrators outside the hospital and now she was being forced to run some stupid military gauntlet. And for what? So she could save the life of a patient only so he could be shot in a few weeks. 

She thought about the new patient. Definitely not her typical case. She was a surgeon, for god's sake. She patched people up and then passed them off to someone else. But the higher ups had decided almost immediately after he had been brought in that she would take primary responsibility for the city's new hero. Even though she knew it was a big responsibility to oversee and coordinate the myriad of specialists who would treat the man, she knew it was mostly for p.r., a way for the hospital could display its new "diversity." It also was a total crock. The endless press briefings with the older, white doctors invariably ended with her just sitting there while they talked. But she suffered through it, reminding herself that her career was at stake. Damn, she hated being a token. 

Still, it was not like her anger towards the hospital was getting in the way of her duties. She took good care of her patient and was worried about his condition. Since his conversation with Colonel Decker the day before, the man had not said a word. She could tell the signs of depression and assumed they were only natural given his circumstances. From what she had seen of Decker, the smug bastard had probably gloated about Peck's execution. No wonder the blond man had been depressed. She hoped things were better today. But, as she showed her ID to the guard and entered the room, she knew they were not. 

Peck was still staring at the ceiling with the same blank look he had the day before. She could tell that he had not noticed her enter. To avoid startling him too much, she cleared her throat. 

The noise had its intended effect. Her patient jerked his head in her direction momentarily, but when he saw it was only her, his gaze returned to the ceiling. She knew this was not going to be easy, so she tried injecting some levity as she approached his bed. 

"So, checking out the cloud formations?" 

Silence. 

"See any elephants or cars?" 

Silence. 

"I've always been partial to dogs. Big dogs -- retrievers and shepherds -- not those little rats that the ladies in Beverly Hills call dogs." 

Silence. 

"I've always thought that any dog that needs more time at a beauty salon than me does not deserve to be called a dog." 

"What do you want?" 

Not wanting to flaunt that she had broken through his reverie, she stopped herself from smiling. "I want to talk about you, Mr. Peck. About how you feel. Or, if you would prefer, I could continue my dog monologue." 

He glanced at her quickly before returning his eyes to the ceiling. "I don't really feel like talking." 

"That's not good enough. You know, I didn't think soldiers got a whole lot of say in what they do." 

"I haven't been a soldier in a long time." His monotone betrayed no emotion as he spoke. 

"Well then, if you're not a soldier, then what are you?" 

He looked at her again. This time, his gaze did not leap back to the ceiling. She could sense that he was studying her, but his eyes never left hers. She stared right back into his, refusing to break eye contact. She did not even blink. 

Finally, he looked away. Slowly, in an almost whisper, he answered her question. 

"Don't you know?. . . I'm a killer." 

She looked at Peck. Not "looked" at him like a doctor examining a patient, but, for the first time, she looked to see the man actually lying there. She knew doctors rarely did this. To avoid getting too close to their patients, doctors insulated themselves inside an armor of indifference. But something about this man intrigued her, so she deliberately threw away her armor. 

"I don't believe you," she said. "Killers don't risk their lives to save other people." 

"Yeah." His voice oozed sarcasm. "Well, if that's so, why don't you tell Decker?" 

"Oh, that insufferable putz? He doesn't need me to tell him," she teased. "He's got plenty of people telling him that." 

His interest obviously piqued, she continued. "Oh, don't you know, Mr. Peck? You're a hero. Outside this hospital, there are hundreds of people chanting your name and praying for you." 

His response surprised her. "I guess a lot of people have too much time on their hands." The sarcasm was gone; he was completely serious. 

"Those people out there are trying to get you pardoned," she insisted. "They're trying to save your life. Don't you understand that?" 

He sighed. "Yes, I understand. Those people could be putting their time to better use. I'm not worth the effort." 

"So you're just going to sit here until it's time to execute you?" 

His eyes locked on hers again and a random thought popped into her head.  What color were those eyes?  They seemed to jump from blue to green to almost gray. But regardless of the color, right now they displayed no emotion. 

"I guess I'll have to take what life gives me," he said evenly. "I always knew my luck would run out someday. I guess this is just the time." 

Hearing the defeat in his words, Dr. Tanaka struggled to respond. Before she found some words, he spoke again. 

"Doc., I'm pretty tired. I don't feel like talking any more." 

She knew as his eyes faced the ceiling that there was no point in prodding him. She'd save the rest of her dog monologue for another day. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


After three days of nothing new, Hannibal was going stir crazy. Amy had been trying to get close to the doctor, but the military had the hospital sealed tight. All this time trying to come up with a plan to rescue Face was starting to wear on him. He needed a diversion and, maybe, he had just found it. 

Hannibal looked down at the newspaper. "Owner of Shootout Restaurant Takes Life" read the headline. The rest of the story detailed how Marc Spencer had committed suicide in a secluded part of Malibu Canyon. Spencer, who had been missing for several days, owned Il Trovatore, the restaurant where two gunmen had taken hostages and had been killed in a gun battle with A-Team member Lieutenant Templeton Peck. Police speculated that Spencer killed himself because he could not cope with his guilt over not being at the restaurant when some of his patrons and employees were killed. 

Hannibal didn't buy it. The team had tried to contact Spencer since shortly after the shootout, but could not find him. The restaurant was closed of course and there was no answer at Spencer's house. Hannibal had debated going to the house, but he knew better than to visit someone who might be talking regularly with the police in the aftermath of a shooting. 

And now the man who hired them to investigate the restaurant was dead. Call it a gut instinct, but Hannibal did not believe Spencer killed himself. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, a way of diverting his attention from worrying about Face. But there seemed to be more going on. Suicide was just too convenient. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Amy Allen stood in the darkness and waited. How did she wind up in these situations? Why couldn't Murdock or BA do this? Okay, she knew why BA couldn't be here. With all the MPs around, they would have spotted him in a second. But ever since the A-Team had returned to LA, she kept getting these types of messenger jobs. 

Not that she minded helping the team. When she heard about the execution shortly after returning to her job at the Los Angeles Courier, she was heartbroken. Then, two years later, Hannibal had shown up at her house dressed as a delivery man. When he had removed his disguise, she had learned that the team had cheated death yet again. Joyously, she had gone back to the role she had played years earlier. 

Yeah, the team had cheated death more times than she could recall. But, for the first time in ages, she wondered whether the A-Team's luck was running out. 

From her corner of the parking garage, Amy saw the Asian doctor leave the staff entrance of the hospital. Since the military police had staked their claim on the facility, staff members had been forced to use a back entrance. The army said it made it easier to control access. Amy could not help but notice that it also kept the staff away from the news vans staked out on the other side of the building. But once Amy learned that the military was also making the doctors park in the large parking structure on Third Street, she waited there for Dr. Tanaka and hoped that her contact at the DMV had given her accurate records. 

Sure enough, Amy soon saw the doctor exit the elevator and begin crossing the lot towards Amy's position. When the other women got close enough, Amy stepped out of the shadows. 

"Dr. Tanaka?" 

Amy nearly laughed as the other woman jumped. Then she saw the can of mace in the doctor's hand. 

"Wait! Stop! I didn't mean to startle you. I need to speak with you. It's important." 

Still aiming the spray in Amy's direction, the doctor asked suspiciously, "Who are you?" 

Taking a deep breath, Amy answered. "My name is Amy Allen. I'm a reporter with the Los Angeles Courier." 

The doctor lowered the can of mace. "I'm sorry Ms. Allen, but I don't give interviews." 

"I know . . . I know that doctor . . . I'm not really here in my official capacity . . .It's just that Face is a friend of mine." 

"Face?" queried the doctor. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Face. Templeton Peck. He is your patient, isn't he?" 

The doctor immediately became nervous, rubbing her hands together as she looked around hastily. Carefully, she spoke, "He is my patient, yes. But I've been instructed not to talk about him. Particularly to reporters." 

"Please doctor. Templeton Peck is a friend. And I'm here on behalf of some of his other friends -- friends who can't come check on him, if you know what I mean." Amy normally hated to beg, but she had no qualms right now. "They're worried sick and the military isn't giving any detailed information." 

Amy stopped and carefully studied the doctor. The reporter realized that the other woman was not going to talk here, not with the military police swarming the building next door. Amy pulled out a pen and piece of paper from her purse and started writing something. 

"Look. Let me give you a telephone number. The man on the other end will probably answer the phone with something like 'Lou's Delivery' or 'Pete's Pizza,' but just tell them who you are. They'll probably want to speak with you face to face. I assure you, they won't hurt you. It's just that they're the closest thing Face has to a family and they're desperate for some news." 

She passed the sheet of paper to Dr. Tanaka. Before walking away, Amy begged once again. "Please take care of him." 

She had only taken five steps when she heard the other woman speak. "Your friend . . . the 'face' . . . what's he normally like? I mean, how does he normally act?" 

Turning back to the doctor, Amy thought for a minute before answering. "I'm not completely sure what you mean . . . But if you're asking me how Face comes across to people, I would say he comes across as supremely confident. Some might call him egotistical, but it's an act. Underneath that surface, he really cares about things. He's probably hurting right now, but doing everything in his power to put on a brave show . . ." 

She stopped as she saw the doctor staring intently. The other woman had begun to open her mouth to speak, but stopped to allow Amy to continue. 

"I'm sure you've seen that. Face has probably spent every waking hour flirting with the nurses and making snide cracks at the soldiers." Amy paused as she thought about what to say next. Then, in a quiet voice, she tried to explain. "You see, doctor, no matter how bad things are, Face would never let anyone know how it's getting to him. He'll make stupid jokes and keep a grin on his face the entire time. Just to keep up a front." 

A long moment passed as the doctor allowed this to sink in. From the way the doctor was chewing her lip, Amy could tell something was wrong. Slowly, the other woman looked at the paper and then back at the reporter. "The man in that room is not acting like you just described," the doctor said slowly with a frown. "Give me an hour or so and I'll call." 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Mr. Lee slid into the back booth of the Silverlake coffee shop at10:45 p.m. He didn't see anyone who could pass for Dr. Nancy Tanaka, so he waited. Approximately five minutes later, the woman entered. 

As she looked around, he appraised her carefully. He figured she was in her early 30s -- young, but not necessarily too young. Her shoulder-length black hair was carefully kempt and her makeup was effective, but discreet. Her long skirt and sweater were not overly conservative and she carried a small backpack, not a purse. Mr. Lee noticed that, even in this uncertain situation, the doctor carried herself with confidence. 

Mr. Lee felt relieved. He had made a career of studying people and, watching the attractive, confident doctor approach his table, he knew Face's care was in excellent hands. 

It was finding a way to keep the lieutenant in those hands that troubled him. 

"Mr. Lee?" the woman asked. "Are you Mr. Lee?" 

"Ah so," responded the old man, motioning her to sit. 

"Umm. The guy at Pete's Pizza told me that I should meet you here to discuss your friend." 

"Ah, yes. Friend. Confucius say friend is like precious pearl. Take long time to cultivate and must be kept on very strong string." 

He was startled from his act by her giggles. She was trying to cover her face to stop the tears of laughter. 

"I'm sorry," she exhaled. "I'm really sorry . . . But do you actually get people to believe you in that get up?" Unable to control herself, the doctor buried her head in her hands to avoid attracting attention. From behind her hands, she continued giggling. "Has anyone ever told you that lines like that are truly offensive? Besides . . . you . . . you look my grandfather." 

Hannibal pursed his lips. Yep, he thought, Face is in very capable hands. 

_____________________________________________________________________   
  


Five minutes later, the doctor was in the back of a black van. She thought it had a red stripe on it, but it had been pretty dark in the alley. She had tried to get the license number too, just in case. 

She hoped she hadn't offended the guy dressed in the Chinese costume. She just had not been able to control herself. Did he really think people wouldn't notice the blue eyes and the fake accent? She found herself wondering if he was an actor. Probably so, but a bad one. He was now in the passenger side of the van, removing his fake mustache and hair. 

She looked at the other two occupants of the van. Next to her was a nervous, twitchy type in a leather jacket and baseball cap. Something in his manner made her think that this man was both harmless and deadly at the same time. She could not figure out why she thought that, since it should have been impossible to reconcile the two. But she felt that way nevertheless. 

She had no conflicting thoughts about the driver. The African-American man was huge and his tight shirt displayed his strength. From the grim look on his face, Dr. Tanaka knew this man was not someone to make your enemy. 

"Are we being followed, BA?" Now that the passenger had removed his Mr. Lee costume and leaned forward in his seat, Dr. Tanaka could see the white hair that had previously been hidden by the wig. 

The white-haired man turned to her and she shrunk back in her seat. For some reason, even though this man looked like hundreds of grandfathers, there was a quality about him. Like the nervous man next to her, she could just sense that this man could be lethal. 

"I'm sorry about the shop," she said. All at once, the danger of her situation dawned on her. She was in a strange van, going God knows where, with men who she assumed were wanted murderers. "Um . . . I, umm, told my boyfriend that I would be checking in by eleven. I told him to call me if he didn't hear from me." 

"Relax," said the white-haired man. "Calm down. We're not going to hurt you. We just want to find out about Face." 

The nervous man jumped up in his seat and tucked his knees under him in one fluid motion. "Oh please, please. Tell me Faceyman's okay. Please, oh pretty please . . ." 

"Murdock," said the older man, "let her speak." 

Dr. Tanaka thought about the recent press reports that she had seen about the A-Team, but she couldn't recall any mention of someone named Murdock. Now that she had been able to relax slightly, she identified the white-haired man as John "Hannibal" Smith and the driver as Bosco "BA" Baracus. 

"I'm sorry, Dr. Tanaka. It's just that Captain Murdock sometimes gets overexcited. And he's particularly anxious about Face." 

Unable to stop herself, she asked, "Why do you call him that? What kind of name is 'Face'?" Her tone was a little more exasperated than she would have liked, but it got a response from the leader. 

"I'll answer that doctor. But then you have to answer our questions. Is that a deal?" 

She nodded. 

"We call him 'Face' because, with a face like his, he has the ability to get you to say 'yes' before he has even asked the question." 

She suspected there was more to it, but didn't want to push her luck. Not here. 

"Now my questions," the older man continued. "First, what is Face's condition?" 

She looked him squarely in the eye. "I assume that you are Colonel John Smith?" 

He nodded. "Yes. Call me Hannibal. This is Sergeant BA Baracus and the man next to you is . . ." 

"Captain Murdock. I caught that before. I normally would never discuss a patient's condition with someone that I know is not a relative, but I'm going to assume that Mr. Peck" -- she caught herself -- "Face would want you to know. 

"Your friend was shot twice, once in the left shoulder and once in the lower right of the midsection. We immobilized his broken left scapula and he suffered extensive injuries to his intestine, stomach and right kidney. He also lost a lot of blood and went into shock." 

She could see the older man -- Hannibal, she reminded herself -- absorbing everything she said. Murdock had stopped twitching and was listening attentively. 

"All in all, I'd say your friend is very lucky to be alive." 

"So, Doc.," said Murdock. "What's his prognosis?" 

"I expect he would make a full recovery." 

"Would. You said 'would'. What do you mean by 'would'?" Murdock twitched impatiently. 

"Yeah, Lady!" She jumped as she heard the gruff voice of the driver for the first time. 

"What I meant is that, with some time, Face would recover fully. But he's not going to get that time, is he?" 

She noticed that the leader had pulled out a cigar and put it to his mouth. He fumbled in his breast pocket for a match or lighter. Finding none, he tried his pants and then scanned the van. Finally, dejectedly, he put the cigar back in his pocket. With a grim look in his eyes, the white-haired man turned back to face her. 

"So when's Decker going to move Face?" 

"I don't know." 

"Doc.," he said slowly, the edge in his tone perfectly clear. "I like you, but I'm not in the mood to play around. Tell me the truth. When's Decker moving him?" 

"Honestly," she said hurriedly. "I don't know. I'm trying to keep him at Cedars as long as possible." 

"Okay," he smiled. "I believe you. I didn't mean to scare you, but I just needed to make sure you were telling us everything." He turned away and sat back in the passenger seat. 

Maybe he's not such a bad actor after all, she thought. Then she realized that there was something she hadn't told them. 

"There is something else," she offered. 

The leader -- Hannibal, she told herself -- swung around quickly. She could see the concern in his eyes. 

"Mr. Peck's -- Face's attitude is worrying me. You see, when I spoke with the reporter, she gave me the impression that your friend is outgoing; that even injured, he would joke and flirt." 

"That's Faceman, for you," the man next to her -- Murdock -- concurred. 

"But you see, that's not how he's acting at the hospital." 

"What do you mean, Doctor?" Hannibal leaned forward. Without realizing it, he had pulled the cigar out of his pocket again and was fingering it. 

"Well, for the most part, he just stares at the ceiling. He barely notices when other people are in the room and almost completely refuses to talk. When I asked him how he felt about being executed and told him about the people trying to get him freed, he acted like he didn't care." 

The three men all took this in slowly. After a minute, Murdock spoke. "It sounds like Face is depressed. That seems pretty normal considering what's happened." 

She was somewhat surprised by the man's response. She had some ideas about soldiers and she didn't expect them to be particularly insightful about mental health issues. 

Obviously her surprise showed, because Hannibal explained that the team, especially Murdock, was familiar with the signs of depression. 

"Look, umm, Colonel. Captain. You're right in part. Your friend is depressed, but there's more to it." 

"Do you think he's suicidal, doctor?" 

She thought for a moment before answering. "Perhaps, Colonel." 

"No way." Murdock was vigorously shaking his head. "Uh uh. Faceman would never consider suicide. He was raised a strict Catholic. I mean, even in the camps, he refused to consider it. He talked other men out of it." 

Doctor Tanaka did not completely understand what Murdock was saying. She got the gist of it; her patient would have to overcome a lot of ingrained barriers before he might kill himself. But what did Murdock mean by "the camps"? 

"You're right, Murdock," Hannibal added. "Face wouldn't do it. But the Doc's right. Even if he was in horrible pain and Decker was hovering over him every minute of the day, Face would be doing his best to make it seem like things weren't getting to him." 

"So somethin' else ain't right with Faceman," interjected the driver. 

The doctor watched as the twitchy man looked at her and then back at the colonel. Murdock put his right hand over his mouth and ran it over his nose to his brow before speaking. "Colonel," he said quietly. "There was something Face said in the restaurant. I was so upset about leaving him there that I didn't give it much thought." 

Hannibal raised his eyes and stared at the other man. The colonel's jaw was locked tight and the icy stare he gave Murdock would have frozen most men. "What did Face say, Murdock?" 

"He wasn't really conscious, but he kept talking about killing someone. I don't completely remember." 

"Y'know Hannibal, li'l brother wasn't with it. I was there. I didn't hear nothin'. Either he or the fool might have been hallucinatin'." 

Hannibal turned to face the driver so Dr. Tanaka could not see his face, but she heard his terse words. "Maybe BA, but Murdock should have told me about this. You all must know how hard it must have been for Face to kill those men. It had to be a last resort. Face may be trying to come to terms with that." 

Dr. Tanaka took in his words. Guilt? Her patient might feel guilty after saving all those lives. It seemed hard to reconcile with what she had heard about the A-Team. Why would her patient -- a convicted murderer -- feel guilty about killing men who were about to murder a group of innocent people? 

They drove in silence for a few more minutes and then BA stopped the van to let her out in the alley behind the coffee shop. She was surprised when Hannibal got out of the van with her and escorted her to the end of the alley. Then she realized that he wanted to say something out of hearing range from the others. 

"Listen, Doc.," he said. 

She saw him look down as he shuffled his feet. In the van, he had seemed like such a strong presence -- a leader in every respect. But in the alley, under the street lamp, he suddenly looked like an old man. 

"I'm going to say this because I trust you. I've never said this before to anyone. Murdock and BA probably sense this, but Face . . . Face is special, kind of like a son to me. I'd do anything for him, so . . . please . . . I beg you . . . take care of him. Let him know his 'family' is looking out for him and will get him out of there." 

She nodded, trying to prevent herself from crying. She knew this was a man who rarely displayed these emotions, and she could see he was struggling with it. 

"I'll do my best, sir." 

He patted her on the arm and mouthed the word "thanks." She could tell he no longer trusted himself to speak. 

Watching him walk back to the waiting van, Dr. Nancy Tanaka swore that she would do everything in her power to protect Templeton Peck. If he would not fight for himself, she would. For him and his family.   
  


**_End Part 1_**


	2. Default Chapter Title

**_Scars, Part 2_**

[An added warning.This part contains graphic depictions of torture and non-consensual sex.Be warned.]

Colonel Decker wondered what possessed him to check on his prisoner at 0200. He told himself that it had something to do with years of getting the A-Team within his grasp only to have them slip away, but he knew he was kidding himself. The colonel had not slept at all, preoccupied as he was since he had learned earlier in the night that his son's unit was shipping out for Saudi Arabia. As for his prisoner, Decker knew there wasn't really any way for Peck to escape.

Decker was still disturbed by his communications with Peck. The day after Peck had clammed up, he still wouldn't say anything. Decker had tried, making all sorts of crude comments regarding Smith and Baracus. Even a nasty dig at Peck's parentage, something that Decker was sure would provoke a reaction, was met by silence.

It wasn't that Decker wanted Peck to talk so much. He couldn't really explain it that well. It was just that when hounds chase a fox, they expect the fox to behave like a fox. They don't expect it to turn into a turtle. Peck just wasn't acting like Decker had planned. The man's behavior thoroughly puzzled the colonel and that bothered him.

Having checked the external security for the eighth time that day, Decker walked to the guard outside Peck's room. Seeing the superior officer, the guard jumped to attention and saluted.

"At ease, private. Is there anything to report?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"When did you last check the prisoner?"

"Sir, 10 minutes ago. I check every 20 minutes as ordered, sir."

"Very good, private. What is the prisoner's condition?"

"Sir, he's sleeping, sir."

The loud scream emanating from the room belied the guard's claim.

Wide eyed, the guard looked at Decker and said, "He was sleeping, sir."

Decker raced into the darkened room, the private at his heels. In the dim light emanating from the doorway, he could see Peck thrashing about in the bed. Seeing how Peck's body jerked, Decker's immediate thought was that the man was having a seizure. Shoving the terrified private back towards the door, the colonel yelled, "Get a nurse!" Then he rushed to restrain Peck.

Another scream erupted from the man's throat as his twisting placed his entire weight onto the broken shoulder. He kept kicking his legs out, repeatedly catching his left leg in the shackle. Decker suddenly understood that this was not a seizure. Peck's eyes were closed and he was still asleep. The man was having a nightmare.

------------------------------

"Peck, Templeton, Lieutenant . . ." The force of the blow to his head stopped him in mid-sentence.

"Tell me," said his interrogator, "what was your objective?"

"Peck," he repeated, albeit more slowly. "Templeton, Lieu . . ."

This time, his breath left him as he felt a punch to his midsection. He fell to the floor and felt a volley of kicks to his rib and groin. Twisting, he tried to protect himself, but with his arms tied to the chair now lying on his back, he knew it was futile. He felt a hand grab his hair as he was yanked forcefully to his knees and found himself staring straight into the dark, cold eyes of General Chao.

"You will tell me what I want to know Lieutenant or I will make you beg me to kill you."

He let a small smile flit across his bloody lips as he stared back in the general's face. Face knew he was not going to like what was coming next, but he needed to let the other man know he could take his worst. "Peck, Templeton . . ."

Before he finished, Chao made a quick gesture with his head and the two guards grabbed Face and dragged him across the room. With skill that came from regular practice, the guards quickly removed the chair, shackled Face's wrists and, using a rope attached to the shackles, pulled his arms above his head and his feet off the ground. Dizzy from the sudden movement and the blows to his head, Face let his head slump forward.

The force of the cane on his upper back caused him to arch violently and rear his head back. Blow after blow followed, interrupted only by the general's demand for information. Each time, Face gave his name, rank and serial number, usually never getting past his name before the cane struck his battered body in response. Face knew that the rest of the team would be able to hear any screams, so he tried to take the abuse in silence.

The cane struck his back and legs repeatedly, but then stopped. Hanging limp from the shackles, Face could feel the blood and sweat running freely down his body and hoped it would be enough to satisfy Chao's bloodlust.

It wasn't. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the guard give Chao an iron. The tip was blazing red. Oh God, he thought, trying to suppress his panic. They're going to burn me.

Chao approached him and put the heated end of the poker near Face's cheek.

"Give me the information or I'm going to remove your eye. I know you were on your way to Vinh. Tell me why. Or this room is the last thing you'll ever see."

Face knew Chao could only imagine the fear the poker instilled. Since his childhood, Face had been in mortal terror of being burned, a remnant of a fire he had survived. For a moment, he nearly gave in to that fear, nearly revealing that the team had been attempting to rescue some friendly operatives before the city of Vinh was reduced to ashes in planned bombing raids. No. He couldn't do that. He would take Chao's worst. Even if he died here, he would die with honor and not break his code. He would not betray the others.

"Peck, Temp . . ."

The pain was excruciating. With a sudden movement, Chao dropped the heated iron from Face's head and buried it into his chest. He knew he could not stiffle the cry of pain, but, even in his agony, he wanted to protect the men outside. He wanted to do something to give them some hope that he was surviving. So as the fire struck again and again, he didn't scream. He yelled at Chao with every Vietnamese profanity that came to mind.

------------------------------

As Decker tried to use his weight to stem the man's violent twisting, he heard Peck shout in another language -- Vietnamese, Decker finally realized. But even though Decker did not understand the words, he could hear the terror and pain in them.

"Peck. Calm down." He forced himself to push harder against Peck's chest, no longer concerned about hurting the already injured man.

Perhaps in response to Decker's force, Peck's right arm, though still shackled, jerked out of the bed with the force of a sharp right hook. Amidst the clang of the shackle on the bed guard, Decker could heard the sound of bones breaking. Shit, he thought. Peck was going to kill himself.

Decker yelled again for a nurse.

------------------------------

Face knew what was coming next as the guards held him down over the small table in the room. Despite having little strength left, he struggled as best he could. Now, his head forced down on its side, Face could see Chao's head tilted next to him. The cold black eyes shone for the first time and a smile crossed the general's face.

"I could stop this, Lieutenant. Just tell me what I want to know."

Face did not have the strength to speak, even if he had wanted to. Seeing that he was going to get no answer, Chao shook his head deliberately and then nodded to one of the guards.

Face felt his pants being pulled down to his ankles and closed his eyes. He tried to picture the beach, the ocean waves crashing into a wooden pier. If he could trick himself into believing he was someplace -- any place -- other than where he was, he might be able to make himself believe this wasn't happening. Just as he was often able to trick others into believing things about him, he sometimes could work the same magic on himself

This was not one of those times.

Face had never felt this type of pain before. Not just the physical pain caused by the forceful thrust of the guard, but the emotional pain as well. Shame, guilt and rage flooded through him. He screamed in agony, for the first time thinking of no one else and making no effort to mask his suffering.

He didn't know how long he screamed or how long he was violated. Then it was over. The guard holding him down let go of Face's head. Face slumped to the floor, shaking violently.

Chao leaned over him. "I told you Lieutenant. We could have avoided this. Give me the information I want and I will spare you from any more pain."

Gathering his strength, Face looked at the other man defiantly. He'd already been beaten, burned and raped. He wanted the general to know that there was nothing worse that they could do to him.

Face did not know how wrong he was.

------------------------------

"What the hell took you so long," Decker yelled as the nurse ran in with a sedative.

"I came as fast I could," she retorted.

As she began to put the sedative in Peck's IV bag, Decker began to relax. The injured man seemed to be calming, though he was still trembling. Maybe the worst of this is over, Decker thought. But just as the thought crossed his mind, Peck emitted a blood-curdling scream, worse than any Decker had heard before. The younger man's body jerked forward as far as it could. And the screams continued.

"NO!!! STOP!!! PLEASE!!!"

------------------------------

He struggled to escape the grip of the guards holding him as he saw the guard point the gun at the girl's head. A little Vietnamese girl. She couldn't be more than ten, he thought. The guards had led her in and placed her directly in Face's line of sight. She locked her eyes on him. He could see the naked terror in them.

Chao spoke. "Tran Nguyen's father was a spy. His daughter will suffer the same fate as her father unless you, Lieutenant, choose to save her."

Face could feel the chill crawl up his spine as the guard fingered the trigger. Face shot Chao a look of fury; he had never hated a man as much as the laughing Vietcong general.

"Well, Lieutenant. I am offering you a choice. The girl's life for the information I seek." The general said something in Vietnamese and the girl's eyes widened.

Face mind reeled. There had to be a way out of this nightmare. "YOU BASTARDS!" he screamed as he strained forward. He hoped he could reach Chao and rip out the man's throat, but the guards gripped him too tightly. Finally, exhausted and defeated, he stopped fighting.

"Please," Face begged. "Shoot me instead. Don't hurt her. Please."

The Vietnamese officer gave a vicious smile. "Then give me answers."

Face wanted to. He wanted to tell Chao everything. The objective. The names of the friendlies. The plan to use E&E until the team got to a good landing zone. He felt his lips begin to move, but he stopped them. 

He looked at the girl. He knew his eyes were begging forgiveness.

"I-I'm sorry" was all he could say.

As if from a distance, he heard the shot ring out. He watched the girl's skull explode as the bullet entered her right temple. He watched as her body slumped to the floor behind the table. Then, he felt himself pulled up roughly by the guards. As he was being dragged out, he saw the girl again.

She looked different.

Instead of the little Vietnamese girl lying in a pool of blood and gray matter was a blond woman. Her lifeless brown eyes stared at him. The accusatory glare was plain.

He couldn't stop himself. The tough soldier who had defiantly taken the Vietcong's worst abuse began to cry, the sobs wracking his body.

"No. Oh God, no. I killed her."

------------------------------

Decker was exhausted. He had watched the man in the bed wail uncontrollably about killing someone until the sedative finally took effect. Despite the commotion, Peck had never woken up. And even now, though he had mostly calmed down, his body still twitched from time to time as if there still might be some residual effect of the terror he had experienced during the night.

Once Peck's body had lost some of its tension, Decker had ordered the guard to remove the handcuffs from Peck's leg and wrist. The leg was now bandaged where the force of Peck's gyrations had caused the shackle to cut deep into the skin. A doctor would soon be taking Peck to repair the man's obviously broken wrist and to assess whether he had aggravated any of his preexisting injuries.

Looking at the man lying in the bed, Decker took a cloth and wiped away some sweat from the lieutenant's brow. What had the man seen while he was caught in that nightmare? From the Vietnamese, Decker figured Peck had been reliving some horrific torture in a POW camp. But the war had ended nearly twenty years earlier. Had the man been plagued by these nightmares for that entire time?

The thought made Decker shudder.

He studied Peck's face. The man looked so young and, for the first time, Decker thought, so vulnerable.

According to army records, Peck had been born in December 1950, which meant he would soon turn 40. But Decker did not believe it. He had always suspected that Peck was underage when he enlisted. He figured Peck did not become a con man in Vietnam; he had to have started someplace and forging birth records was pretty easy. What Decker did not know is how young Peck had been when he first saw combat. He had tried to do the math once, but he often got hung up -- mainly because he did not know enough about the young man's life before the military.

He thought about what he knew of the young man. Raised in orphanages until he went to college. Decker had never been able to find any paperwork about the boy ("lost in an accident"), but he suspected that Peck had graduated from high school when he was 15 or 16. It meshed with the reports of Peck's football exploits. He apparently had played only one year, emerging as a star receiver to be named to the All-City team. If Peck was too young to play or had only just experienced a growth spurt, it would explain why he had appeared out of nowhere. 

He knew Peck was smart enough to graduate early from high school. Decker had seen Peck's college transcripts -- straight A's, dean's list, academic scholarships. With academic credentials like that, even if he had been old enough, the young man was in no danger of getting drafted. So why had he chucked it all and enlisted? And then he raced through OCS, airborne and somehow got into Special Forces without meeting the service requirement, all so he could wind up on Smith's team, experience hell in a POW camp and then rob a bank. Why?

Just more of the hundreds of questions that could be asked about the mysterious Lieutenant Templeton Peck.

For the first time, Decker wanted answers.

_____________________________________________________________________

Hannibal got a report from Dr. Tanaka the next day. He repeated the news as stoically as he could to BA and Murdock. During a nightmare, Face had torn the ligaments and broken a bone his wrist. He also had aggravated his injured shoulder.

BA simply stared grimly and punched a fist into the palm of his other hands. Hannibal could see the sergeant's concern for Face, but knew that the big man would do everything to hide his emotions.

Murdock was more demonstrative. He leaped around the room tossing the bedspreads and sheets. Hannibal didn't try to stop him. Better to let him get out his frustration, the colonel thought. He finally intervened when the captain grabbed a lamp and aimed it at the TV.

"Enough, Captain," Hannibal ordered. "This is not helping Face. Or any of the rest of us for that matter."

"Speak for yourself, Colonel. This is doing a lot for me," Murdock said through gritted teeth. With a fluid motion, he sent the lamp sailing across the room.

Hannibal sighed at the sound of shattering glass.

"Why'd ya do that, you crazy fool!" yelled BA. "Now we can't see the news about Face."

"Because I'm sick of the news about Face, BA. Because there is no news. Because we're standing around with our thumbs up our butts, doing nothing!" Murdock's voice grew louder during his tirade.

"THAT'S ENOUGH, CAPTAIN!" Hannibal commanded. He could not remember the last time he had raised his voice to the team, but he was nearly at his wits end. He understood how Murdock felt, but at times like these, he wanted to throttle the captain. "I told you before. We're all concerned about Face. There is nothing we can do for him, right now."

"I don't buy that, Colonel." Murdock's voice had lowered, but his terse reply was laced with an anger that scared Hannibal. Despite his apparent lucidity, Hannibal knew that the captain was closer now to the brink of insanity then when he was talking to imaginary friends or acting out fantasies. Murdock was also at his most dangerous.

"Colonel," Murdock said in a tone bordering on insubordination. "I'm going for a walk. A long walk. If you think of something useful for us to do while I'm gone, come get me. Otherwise, don't bug me."

He slammed the door as he exited. Seconds later, BA had his keys and was heading to the door. He looked at Hannibal for confirmation.

Hannibal nodded. "Follow him, BA. Just keep a discreet distance and make sure he doesn't get into trouble. He needs some space. Face being hurt is hard on him."

"It's hard on all of us," BA rejoined.

As he left, Hannibal began to clean up the shattered remnants of the lamp and TV.

_____________________________________________________________________

Dr. Tanaka checked her sleeping patient in the dark room. Though she heard about the incident the night before, she had been shocked by how much damage Face had done in his sleep. She was thankful, however, that he had not done further damage to his stomach wound. It was bad enough that they had to perform surgery on his wrist to repair the ligament damage and reset the bones. The man hardly needed to have new staples placed in his stomach and intestines or a colostomy. Though it would hardly matter in the end.

She wished that the man's "family" had mentioned his nightmares. Being caught unprepared was one of Nancy Tanaka's pet peeves. Had she known, she could have made sure Face received a sedative before sleep.

On the plus side, the little incident meant that Face would be staying in her care longer than originally planned. The thought pleased her.

It suddenly dawned on her that she was calling her patient "Face." In the abstract, it was a ridiculous nickname -- almost as ridiculous as Hannibal's "Mr. Lee" -- but for the man in the bed, it seemed appropriate.

"Well, Face. It looks like we're going to be getting to know one another better. I met your family last night and spoke again with them this morning. They are very concerned about you and asked me to take care of you. They want you to get better." She paused before adding, "So do I."

As she turned away, she did not hear her patient stir as his eyes opened and watched her leave.

_____________________________________________________________________

Murdock walked down Sixth Street, past the shop selling cheap Halloween costumes and looked down at MacArthur Park. He could see a drug deal going down near the basketball court and a couple of homeless men sleeping on the park benches. He knew the place was dangerous, but, in his present mood, he wouldn't mind if someone wanted to tussle. Besides, BA was watching his back from the van.

Murdock hated feeling helpless. He knew that Face needed him. More than any member of the team, Face had always been dependent on the others. Even though he tried to hide his emotions underneath his veneer of superficiality, the real Face was scared of being abandoned. That the team had left him behind -- in Decker's hands no less -- was the worst thing Murdock could imagine. If only he and BA had been able to move faster through the vents, they might have been able to get to the hostages before Face had been hurt. His mind had been replaying the scene in the entryway ever since he had been forced to run away. Seeing Face's limp body amid all that blood was almost more than Murdock could bear.

He also kept racking his brain trying to recall what Face has whispered in the restaurant. Murdock had been barely able to hear his best friend over the wailing of the hysterical teenagers, but he was sure Face had said something about killing someone. In the chaos of the moment and the aftermath at the hospital, however, Murdock had lost his ability to recall the exact words. He could picture the events vividly, but not the words. The doctor had said that Face was more than depressed and Murdock could not lose the feeling that something Face had said was important. That he could not remember something that might help his best friend made Murdock's blood boil.

His frustration now rage, Murdock walked into the park. His fists clenched, he thought, please go ahead. Go ahead and fuck with me. I'm in the mood.

_____________________________________________________________________

Face kept staring at the ceiling in the hope that Decker would go away. After hearing what the doctor had said about the team, he had snapped out of his funk a bit. But for the moment, he figured this had worked before and maybe, seeing that Face was unresponsive, Decker might go away. Didn't the jerk have something better to do with his time? It seemed like he came in every day to gloat. As if Face needed reminding that he would soon be facing a firing squad.

Admittedly, Decker was employing a different strategy today. Instead of stomping about and acting officious, the man was sitting in a chair staring at Face. He had been staring for the past ten minutes, saying nothing. For some reason, this was making Face far more uneasy that any of Decker's other visits.

"What?" Face finally said in exasperation. "Did I just sprout turnips out of my nose?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said."

"Rod, why don't you get out of here." In a matter-of-fact way, Face continued, "You got me. You're gonna kill me. I'm not going anywhere. There really isn't any more to say."

"I'm not sure that's true, Lieutenant."

"Oh? So you don't have me, you're not going to kill me and I'm going to Disneyland?"

"I'm glad to see you feeling better."

"Yeah. I bet. I guess if I'm feeling better, it puts me that much closer to the firing squad."

Decker did not rise to the bait. Instead, he asked a quiet question that surprised Face.

"Lieutenant, if you could change things -- everything -- would you? I mean, if you could go back, would you still have joined the army?"

Had he not been lying down, the question would have knocked Face over. He answered before he could catch himself.

"There a lot of things in my life I would change . . . Joining the army isn't one of them."

"But you would have had such a different life. You would never have been captured by the Vietcong. Never arrested for the robbery or Morrison's murder. Think about it. You could have settled down."

"That was never meant to be," Face answered forcefully. "Besides, if I hadn't joined the army, I would never have met Hannibal."

Decker rocked back in his chair. "You know, Lieutenant. I never understood the effect that Smith had on his soldiers. I mean . . . I'm the same rank as he is, but I can't imagine my men willingly risking their lives for me. You and Baracus would move heaven and earth for Smith. Why?"

The absurdity of the conversation dawned on Face. Why in hell was he having a heart-to-heart with Decker of all people? Yet for some insane reason, he wanted to answer the question. It also dawned on him that Decker had called him "Lieutenant."

"Decker, how much do you really know about us? You've been chasing us for years, but do you really think that you know BA and me? Do you really have a clue about the way Hannibal thinks?"

Decker looked thoughtful. "Until yesterday, I thought I knew you. But . . . But when I saw what you were going through, I realized that I didn't know you at all."

Saw what Face was going through? What did Decker mean by that? The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. The nightmare. Decker must have witnessed the nightmare. A wave of panic swept over him. Murdock had told him that he sometimes talked during his nightmares. Had he said anything?

"I know the camps were bad," Decker continued. "But until I saw you reliving it, I had no idea how bad. I'd think the memories would drive me crazy. I kind of see now why your pilot lost it."

"The solution, Decker, is not to think about it. You're right in a way; if I thought about it all the time, I'd go crazy. So I try not to think about it." Face smiled slightly. "If it comes out at night from time to time, I deal with it then."

"So you've been having these nightmares ever since Nam?"

"Off and on. They get worse after traumatic situations and I guess the present circumstances qualify, don't you?"

Ignoring Face's feeble attempt at humor, Decker asked another question. "What do you see?"

"See?"

"In your nightmares, Lieutenant? Do you relive things exactly as they happen? Or is it like watching a movie, where you see yourself from a distance?"

Face took a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm about to say this to you. Hell, you're the last person I should let inside my head. But . . . I feel -- see things as they happened. As I saw them then. It's not exactly what happened. Sometimes things that happened on different days blend together . . . Sometimes . . ." He paused and his eyes widened. In front of him was the blond woman with the large brown eyes and accusatory stare.

"Sometimes what, Lieutenant?" said the colonel, leaning forward. The apparition vanished at Decker's words.

"Sometimes I see other things that shouldn't be there at all."

Face could see Decker staring at him. Probably at the terrified look Face knew was on his face.

"What do you mean, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, you know how dreams are," Face said dismissively. "People from the present appear in the past. Things that shouldn't be someplace are. Just enough to make things weird."

Though Face had tried to downplay his words, he could see that Decker didn't buy it.

"Did that happen in your nightmare last night?"

Decker probably could tell that it had, but Face shook his head in the negative.

"No. I was just talking generally." He felt beads of sweat starting to appear on his face. To cover, he said, "Boy, it's hot in here, isn't it. Do you think you could ask the nurse for some ice?"

"Sure, kid. We don't have to talk about this anymore." Obviously Face's attempt to change the subject had not gone unnoticed. Before he left, the colonel stopped to ask another question. Lieutenant? Tell me one more thing . . . When you enlisted, how old were you? Honestly."

Face looked the colonel in the eye, took another deep breath and laid his head back on the pillow. There was no point in lying. His eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling tiles, he told the truth. "Sixteen."

He could tell Decker was doing the math. Face had been only eighteen when he was brutalized.

_____________________________________________________________________

BA nearly carried Murdock into the motel room. He was furious at the pilot.

"You crazy fool. Why you be doing such stupid things?"

He saw Hannibal, who was across the room, jump off the bed at the sight of the swelling om Murdock's cheek and the blood flowing from above Murdock's eye.

"What the hell happened?"

"The crazy fool decided to start a fight in the park. With five guys. I got there quick, but they already begun beatin' him. One of 'em had a ring."

"Aaahhh, but Colonel," Murdock said dreamily, "you should see the other guys." He looked up at BA and quickly kissed him on the cheek. "My hero." Murdock promptly passed out.

"Put him on the bed, Sergeant," commanded Hannibal with a sigh.

As he stripped Murdock of his jacked and baseball cap (wondering how, through everything, Murdock never seemed to lose the cap), BA watched Hannibal. He thought Hannibal looked tired.

"Ya should get some rest, Hannibal."

"I will soon . . . I was just looking over some things." Hannibal motioned to a pile of paper on the bed.

"What things?"

"My notes on the job at Il Trovatore. Thought it would take my mind off . . . well you know . . . But something isn't right."

"Like what?"

"Well, Marc Spencer hires us to go in there because he claims there is drug dealing among the kitchen staff. Then, the day that Face goes in to scope the place out, Joe Carson and Chuck Ray, decide to shoot it up. After that, Spencer kills himself in a secluded hillside by the beach. Something doesn't add up."

"Whatcha thinkin', Hannibal? That Spencer didn't kill himself?"

"I don't know, BA. I think Spencer might have been killed to cover someone's tracks. I mean, look here. According to the police report when the maitre d' was interviewed, Carson and Ray kept asking about a package."

"So? They were probably looking for drugs."

"Yeah, but it's too convenient. Spencer hires us to find out about drugs in his restaurant and that same day someone shoots up the place looking for them. A restaurant that had never had a violent incident before." Hannibal inhaled on his cigar and looked at BA. "Someone wanted us to believe there was something really going on there. I think Face got invited to a show for our benefit, but Carson and Ray messed up the script."

BA did not like where this conversation was going. He didn't like the thought that his li'l brother had been set up.

"Amy gave me copies of the police report. Two of the witnesses told the cops that one of the gunmen said it was supposed to be an easy job. Just get a 'package' and leave. But something went wrong. Either there was no package or . . ." BA could see Hannibal trying to puzzle out an answer.

"Or what, Hannibal?"

"Or the intended target got away. Maybe through the back exit."

"When Face let the staff escape." BA was catching on to Hannibal's train of thought. But something bugged him about the scenario. "Wait a sec, Hannibal. If that's true, and this was a set-up, there must have been some package in there. There's no point in setting this all up if the robbers can't find the dope."

"You're right BA."

"'Sides, when the gunmen saw there was no package, why'd they take hostages? Why didn't they get outta there right away?"

"That's puzzling me too. I mean, at first I wondered why they killed anyone, but some witnesses said Carson went crazy when some guy in the dining room tried to run and started firing. Took out part of the front room . . ."

"How come the Faceman ain't shot then?" BA interrupted.

"I think Face was in the back. That's why he was closer to the kitchen," Hannibal answered. "So I think the shooting was just because the shooters panicked or were nuts. But it still leaves open the original question. If this was a quick 'in and out' job, why didn't the bad guys leave when they couldn't find the drugs? Why take hostages? And why beat up the maitre d'?"

Hannibal answered his own question. "Wait. There may be an answer about the maitre d'." He pulled a couple pieces of paper from the stack on the bed and perused them for a minute. "If the bad guys were looking for a member of the kitchen staff, they probably wanted the maitre d' to give them information about the guy. 

Catching Hannibal's point, BA said, "So they beat 'im up to git him to tell 'bout the package and then use him as a hostage."

"That makes sense. As for the other hostages, maybe they didn't have time to get out before the cops arrived. Maybe, once they saw that some people had escaped, they figured they were better off taking hostages." Hannibal shook his head as he looked back up at the sergeant. "I just don't know."

BA agreed. There were a lot of unanswered questions. Then something else occurred to him. "One mo' thing, Hannibal. These dudes, Carson and Ray, don' seem too smart. If someone's settin' us up and the robbers got caught, they'd have talked, right?"

"Yeah, BA . . . Which raises an even more troubling possibility."

"What?"

"That, if this was a set-up, the puppet master figured if things went wrong, the robbers were going to go in there and get killed. Either by the police or us."

BA took a deep breath. He knew what Hannibal was thinking. The A-Team did not kill people. Sure there had been times when they had come close. But they never crossed the line. For Face to have killed the gunmen, he had to believe the robbers were going to kill the other people in there. Face would never have endangered the other hostages if it was only his own life at stake. That meant that, if someone had set the robbers up to die, that someone was perfectly willing to have the gunmen kill everyone in the restaurant. Or even expected it.

"So, what's the plan, Hannibal? Do we track down the kitchen staff?"

"Not yet, BA. Many of those workers were undocumented, so it might be hard to find them. I think there's something else we should consider first. Two of the witnesses were a husband and wife. Jackie Lattimore initially confirmed the statement about the 'package,' but her husband Richard denied it. The police report reflects that Jackie came back after her interview and recanted that statement."

"Ya think she was pressured?"

"Perhaps. Richard Lattimore is the one that has been speaking out so much and calling for Face to be pardoned. I think we need to find a little more about him."

_____________________________________________________________________

Amy was just finishing updating her editor on the latest in the Templeton Peck story. The hospital had announced a slight set-back in Face's recovery, but was not revealing the details. Even though she knew the truth, Amy was not revealing them either.

Of greater interest to her were some of the rumors she was hearing from her Washington sources. The political pressure for a review of the A-Team case was growing. Tensions had risen in the Middle East since Iraq invaded Kuwait in August and the U.S. might start bombing Saddam Hussein. As her sources explained, making amends for a Vietnam-era injustice might help the president's popularity if "Operation Desert Shield" ever turned into a full-scale war. Rumors had it that people in Washington were discussing pardons.

She did not mention the rumors to Hannibal or BA. She did not want to get their hopes up.

It was the story of a lifetime, the one she had always hoped she would get a chance to write. She prayed the rumors were true.

_____________________________________________________________________

"How are you feeling today, Lieutenant?" Colonel Decker asked from the doorway.

Decker could see that Peck wasn't in the mood to talk. After their extraordinary conversation a few days earlier, Peck had returned to staring at the ceiling when the colonel arrived.

"Glad to hear it," Decker joked. He motioned to a small duffel bag. "I brought you some clothes. The doctor told me she wants you to start walking some more and I figured you might want to have something more than that hospital gown."

Peck looked at him quizzically.

"I know. I know. It's probably not up to your usual standards, but it's hard to buy Armani on a military salary. Just sweats and some shirts. The nurse cut off the right sleeves and the neck, so the shirts should fit around your shoulder plaster without too much difficulty." After Peck reinjured the shoulder, the surgeon had decided his left arm needed more than just a tight brace.

He could tell that Peck was confused by Decker's change in attitude. The mistrust was apparent in the young man's eyes. He probably figured Decker was trying to get information on Smith and Baracus.

Decker sighed. "Anyway, here you go."

He unzipped the bag and placed it on the bed. Even with the cast on his right hand, Peck was able to root through it to see the clothes inside. Decker could see, however, that the cast prevented the lieutenant from getting anything out.

"Here, let me help you with that." Decker pulled out a pair of underwear, sweatpants and one of the shirts. He started to reach for the back of Peck's hospital gown, when he saw the young man tense. "Hey. I'm not going to hurt you, Lieutenant. I just figured with your hands that way, you couldn't undo the ties in the back. Just lean forward a bit."

Peck relaxed slightly and leaned forward, wincing a bit as the movement jarred his stomach. As Decker untied the string holding the gown in place, he thought how ridiculous this would look to his men. Colonel Roderick Decker playing nursemaid to one of the A-Team.

Then he saw the scars.

Decker stood back in shock. He didn't see an inch on Peck's back that didn't bear some testament to the brutality he had suffered during the war. The criss-crossed slashes of a whip or cane ran the length of the back, intersected with spots where it looked like Peck had been branded. And Decker could tell that they didn't stop at the man's back. Many of the scars ran under the plaster on his shoulder and around the rib cage to the man's torso and chest.

The signs of torture shocked Decker. Why had he had never thought that the man would carry scars from his mistreatment in the POW camp? Perhaps because Peck's face was so handsome and carried no signs of abuse, Decker never thought about what the man might be covering up. None of the women he had interviewed during his hunt for the A-Team -- and there had been plenty of those -- had ever mentioned the scars.

"Have you finished looking? If not, I've got a really unusual one on my leg where they played tic-tac-toe with a knife."

The sarcastic comment startled Decker out of his stupor. "I'm sorry," he said hastily. "I . . . I just never realized . . ."

"Yeah," Peck said curtly, cutting the colonel off. "Can you just help me get the shirt on? I'll get a nurse to help me with the rest."

Still astonished by what he saw, Decker complied with Peck's request. Trying not to jar the injured shoulder, he helped Peck pull the shirt over his head. When it was done, the cloth covered only the man's right shoulder and abdomen, but Decker figured Peck probably would feel better with even that little cover. Trying not to make the man any more uncomfortable than he already was, Decker quickly walked out of the room with a promise to get a nurse.

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker's behavior confused Face. One moment, the colonel was gloating about the execution; the next he was trying to get inside Face's head.

Face kicked himself for talking. What had possessed him to reveal things to Decker that Face had never told Hannibal, or Murdock for that matter? Damn, Face knew better than to let his guard down like that. If anything, Decker was trying to butter Face up so that he would give something away about Hannibal's location. As if Face had any clue about that.

The best Face could guess is that the team had hastily moved their base after he was identified. The doctor had mentioned that his apartment was cleaned out; that was the reason that Face had none of his own clothes. The police had also asked why Face's car was not in the restaurant parking lot, so he guessed Hannibal or Murdock had snuck it out from under the valet's nose.

All in all, Face marveled at Hannibal's efficiency. Even in the chaos of the shooting, his C.O. had covered their tracks. Hannibal had done everything he could to protect his lieutenant.

Face hated the thought of that.

He wished the colonel would realize that Face didn't deserve any protection. He only hoped that the team didn't do anything stupid to try to get him out of this predicament. As Face saw it, he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Face knew that the blond ghost of the hostess -- Allison, he kept reminding himself -- would return soon. He kept thinking of how he had flirted with her in the restaurant. He had complimented her hair and honestly told her that she had beautiful eyes. Now those same eyes kept appearing in front of him, accusing him of breaking a promise he had sworn to uphold.

He had always been reluctant to hurt a woman. Even before the camp, when VC women fired at them, Face had difficulty shooting back. But after watching the guard blow the brains out of the Vietnamese girl, Face had pledged he would never hurt a woman. Sometimes Murdock and BA teased him about that, calling him a chauvinist, but he had never revealed the real reason. The others didn't know about the girl or how Face had caused her death.

Just like he had caused the death of the woman in the restaurant.

Face suddenly realized that he was glad Hannibal was not at the hospital. The lieutenant did not know if he could look the colonel in the eyes and admit that he had caused the death of an innocent woman. He could imagine what Hannibal would say. How could Face be so stupid? How could Hannibal have trusted Face? The colonel would probably say that Face deserved Decker's company and everything else that came with it.

Yeah, he thought as he stared at the ceiling, I deserve to be executed. It'll probably save a lot of lives.

Trapped in his thoughts, Face barely noticed when the nurse came in and helped him into the new clothes.

_____________________________________________________________________

For the past four days -- ever since Murdock had picked his fight with the men in the park -- Hannibal had been going on and on about Lattimore and the restaurant. Murdock, in contrast, didn't give a damn about the restaurant. How could their leader even discuss a job when Face was still in the clutches of the military? Just thinking about how Hannibal was acting sent Murdock into a tizzy. He recalled his last confrontation with the colonel just twenty minutes ago:

"We have to get Face out now, Hannibal," Murdock had insisted. "Who knows what they're doing to him in there."

"Captain, we've been over this. We can't go after him yet because Face still needs some time to recover. We'll get him when the time is right."

"That's not good enough, Hannibal." Murdock knew he had long since crossed over the line into insubordination. "Face trusts you more than anyone. And this is how you repay that trust? By not giving a shit about him?" Murdock had stormed off without giving Hannibal a chance to reply and without even looking at the colonel.

BA was going to kill him once he discovered that Murdock had taken the van. Hannibal would kill him when he figured out where Murdock had gone. The captain figured he could deal with that later, providing he didn't get shot first.

He parked the van at the Beverly Center. By entering from La Cienega, there was little chance the MPs would see it. From the San Vicente exit, it was only a block to the hospital.

If Hannibal would not focus on what was important, Murdock would.

Well, he thought, here goes nothing.

_____________________________________________________________________

"Hey, Leticia. How're you doin' today?" The nurse took a quick glance at the hospital board as she always did when she came on duty. "What's the latest? Did Dr. Simon finally induce Room 212?"

"Yeah, Mary. Around midnight from what I hear."

"God, what a nightmare that was. That woman screamed during my entire shift. Refused to even take a local. Ten hours of that, can you believe it? Natural childbirth my ass. When I'm ready, I want the dope."

"I'm with you. It's been a madhouse for weeks. I hate October and November. Why does it seem like people only have sex in the winter?"

Mary laughed. "And it don't make it any easier with all those soldiers runnin' 'round out there. I will sho' be glad when they get that guy off of seven."

Leticia grinned mischeviously, "Oh, I don't know. I like having the soldiers around. I kinda like a man in uniform."

"Oh don't you get caught up in that nonsense. This hospital has had enough trouble already. Did you hear about that x-ray tech gettin' caught in the broom closet with a guard? They had that po' boy marchin' in circles 'round the hospital for hours. And the girl's been on bedpan duty ever since." Mary waggled her index finger. "You don' wan't none of that."

The other nurse sighed. "I guess you're right. But all these cute boys around . . . It's such a shame."

"The real shame is what's goin' on up on seven. Have you seen pictures of that man? What a heartbreaker. Give me a real man like that over any of those li'l boys in the halls."

As she continued to think about the prisoner upstairs, Mary proceeded to look over some notes on the counter. "So, we've got three in labor and five in rooms?" She took another look. "Room 218 looks like she's hours away. And 215 probably won't be moved to labor for another, oh, 45 minutes or so?"

The other nurse nodded in reply, before adding, "Feedings went as scheduled."

"Good. Glad to see things are under control."

"Yeah, everything seems relatively quiet right now."

"Sure, of course it's quiet during the shift change, when we've got extra staff. But you know it'll pick up again."

As if on cue, a loud bang came from the elevator bay. The two nurses swung around in that direction to see a tall man in a leather jacket and a baseball cap come charging down the hall. His arms flailed in every direction and he nearly slipped and fell.

Reaching the nurses station, he pressed forward against it and panted, "Stairs?" The nurses instinctively pointed the way in the direction opposite of where he had come.

He raced down the hall towards where they pointed, stopping momentarily to glance through the window of the nursery. For a second, Mary thought she heard the man offer some advice about not joining the military, but she couldn't hear him all that clearly. After his brief respite, he continued his sprint down the hall.

Only to stop, spin on his heels and turn back as two furious MPs came racing around the corner in his direction.

"HOOOOOOOWWWWWLLLLL" The sound of the man's scream reverberated around the floor. He ran back in the nurses direction, looked from side to side and raced into one of the empty rooms.

The two nurses watched the MPs, their night sticks at the ready, run into the room after the wild-looking man. Suddenly, a loud crash erupted from the room.

"What the hell?!?" Mary cried and she ran towards the room. Before she got there, the bed come rolling into the hallway, both MPs sprawled across its top. She cringed as the bed rolled across the hallway and struck the wall in the opposite room. Thank god that room was empty. Who knows what this commotion would do to a pregnant woman?

The man in the baseball cap leaped out of the first room and swung his head in every direction. His eyes went wide as he looked back to the elevator bay. Mary could hear the doors opening and more shouts filled the ward.

"STOP THIS!!! This is a hospital!" She heard Leticia scream as if that was going to do any good. Turning in the direction of the desk, Mary could see a dozen soldiers come racing down the floor.

A flash of white whizzed by her and she spun around. The wild man was throwing bandage rolls -- and any other supplies he could find -- in the direction of the soldiers.

Mary would never be able to say what possessed her, but as the soldiers neared, she yelled "RUN" to the wild man. Grabbing a nearby gurney, she shoved it into the soldiers' path. The first soldier was unable to stop before the force of the gurney doubled him over. Three other soldiers on the first one's heels ran into the first and they too fell over.

Looking back, she saw the man again race down the hall and again come face to face with soldiers coming in the opposite direction. Mary knew he was trapped, but hoped against hope that he would escape.

He came charging back in her direction, but took an abrupt right turn through a doorway.

"No! You can't go in there!" she called after him. "That's the Labor Room . . ."

Without pausing, the soldiers raced in after him. As she heard the sounds of banging, crashing and shrieking patients finally die down, Mary knew it was all over.

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker had been struggling to write a letter to his son when the three MPs dragged the man with the baseball cap into the room. The colonel was secretly glad for the interruption; he had no idea what to write anyway. So pushing aside the blank piece of paper, he stared at the other man as the MPs walked out and took their positions outside the glass windows to his office. The colonel recognized the pilot from his files and had long suspected that he was in regular contact with Smith. But since Decker had never been able to prove it and, after all, Murdock had never been convicted of any crime, the colonel had pretty much left the crazy captain alone. A few questions and a little surveillance here and there, but that was about it. Decker figured that Murdock was pretty harmless.

Still, the pilot had managed to slip past several security checkpoints and lead the MPs on a merry chase through the maternity ward before he was captured. Decker would have no choice but to increase security now. His higher-ups would demand it.

"Captain Murdock, I assume you have an explanation for this little stunt of yours?"

Murdock shifted in his seat and mumbled, "I came to see Face."

"That's impossible. Lieutenant Peck is a convicted murderer in military custody. He cannot receive visitors. Even his priest has been denied access."

"You know that charge is a crock, Decker. Face didn't kill anyone."

Decker rose from his chair and grasped his hands behind his back, stifling the real thoughts running through his head. "That's irrelevant, Captain. I have orders that the Lieutenant is to have no visitors."

The man still seated in the chair began to shake as he spat, "That's all that matter to you, Decker? Your orders? Well I tell you something. There are things that are more important than orders."

"Captain . . ." Decker tried to respond, but Murdock was on a roll.

"There is loyalty for one. And friendship. That's my best friend up there, who's saved my life more times than you can count, kept me sane in the VC camps. I owe him everything and now he's all alone. That's the worst thing that could happen to Face. Did you know that?"

Murdock didn't pause to let Decker answer, but the pilot's voice grew quiet and bitter. "I promised Face years ago that he would never die alone, because he feared that more than anything. We all promised Face that. I just came to see him, to let him know he wasn't alone."

Decker felt the sting of the captain's words. He personally wanted to escort Murdock up to the secured area, but the colonel knew his superiors would find out. There was no way to make an exception.

"I'm sorry, Captain. There's nothing I can do."

"Yeah," Murdock hissed. "I'll bet. You've probably been lording over Face ever since you showed up. Have you given him details of the firing squad yet? Bragged about an unmarked grave?"

Decker ignored the jibes. "Captain, I'm only going to say one thing . . . And I'm going to say it even though I know you can't possibly know where Colonel Smith or Sergeant Baracus are. I mean, you obviously don't have any contact with them. After all, if you did, you would be considered part of the A-Team too, right?"

Decker paused, making sure he had Murdock's attention before continuing. "But, let's just say you happened to run in to them on the street. Just hypothetically. Would you give Colonel Smith a message from me?"

Decker wanted to laugh at the stunned expression on the pilot's face. The other man looked completely unsure of how to respond.

"Don't even bother answering, Captain. Let's just assume -- hypothetically -- that you would . . . Give Smith this message. Tell him to keep his distance. Tell him there is nothing he can do here except get himself and Baracus killed. And Peck too. Tell him that. For everyone's sake."

He stood up and motioned for the guards at the door. As they entered, Decker told two of them to escort Captain Murdock to the exit and make sure that he left the hospital grounds. Once the MPs had taken Murdock out of the room, the third guard turned to the colonel.

"Do you want us to follow him?"

"No. Don't bother. He's just a crazy pilot who knew Peck in Vietnam."

_____________________________________________________________________

"So how did it feel to walk around a little bit?" Dr. Tanaka asked Face.

"Okay, I guess." The doctor could see that her patient was sinking more and more back into his depressed state. She had hoped he would perk up after she told him about her meeting with his "family," but that had been only temporary.

Pulling up a chair, she asked, "Mr. Peck . . . Face, if you don't mind, what's troubling you?"

He glanced at her and sarcastically replied, "Gee, Doc., I didn't realize we were on a first-name basis."

"I don't know. Face seems appropriate. Ever since I started updating Hannibal on things, I keep thinking of you as 'Face.'" It then dawned on her what he was trying to do. "Hey, enough with trying to change the subject. Tell me what's going on?"

"Well, let's see." The sarcasm was still evidence. "Where should I start? Oh, I know. How about with my upcoming execution? I don't know 'bout you, Doc., but the thought of facing a firing squad doesn't exactly raise my spirits. I've already escaped it once and I figure that's not the type of thing you can get away with too often."

"Don't you have faith in Hannibal?"

Face rolled his eyes. "Of course I have faith in Hannibal. I've put my life in his hands for more than twenty years. This is not a question of faith. But . . ." His voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"Nah, it's not important." He shook his head as he spoke, but she knew he was lying.

"Oh yes it is, Face. Tell me."

"It . . . It's just that I don't want Hannibal or anyone else to get hurt trying to save me. Can you understand that? They'd have to be suicidal to come here with all the MPs around . . . And they'd risk the lives of the staff and patients. Hannibal won't do that and he knows I understand he won't.

"So you see, Doc.," he continued. "This isn't about faith. It's about reality."

"And that reality is that you're guilty about what happened in the restaurant, so you're going to let yourself die without a fight?"

He looked at her, the surprise evident in his eyes. He must have been wondering how she knew. The shock disappeared quickly, as if he had pulled a mask over his face. Very quietly, he spoke. "Maybe . . . Maybe it's what I deserve."

The doctor's frustration boiled over. "I don't get you. You risk your life in that restaurant for a bunch of complete strangers. That was an incredibly brave act, but now you're acting like a coward." She stood up and angrily pointed a finger in his face. "I didn't save your life in that operating room just so you could piss it away."

He looked at her then and she could see the sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Doc. I'm sorry if it hurts you, but you have no say in the matter."

_____________________________________________________________________

Hannibal was enraged when he learned of Murdock's little escapade at the hospital. Didn't the pilot realize that, by concentrating on what had happened in the restaurant, Hannibal had been trying to taking his mind off Face? It was the only way Hannibal could think to stay sane.

Now the captain had ran off and screwed everything up. Hannibal knew Decker would increase security. The plan Hannibal was formulating would be rendered useless. Decker was right. It would be suicide to attempt a rescue and they would probably wind up getting themselves and some innocent people killed. Even if they could somehow get Face out of the hospital, Hannibal knew that the lieutenant could never live with that blood on his hands. Face could never live with that guilt.

_____________________________________________________________________

As Hannibal stewed in a motel room in California, on the other side of the country, a meeting was taking place. The subject was the same as it had been for most of the past week.

The man in charge looked over the briefing book he had received. He had already reviewed the biographical information regarding the three men involved. He was now listening to recommendations from the uniformed men around the table. As always seemed to occur when the A-Team was involved, there was a difference of opinion.

"These men are convicted murderers of an Army colonel. We can't just let them go."

"Cut the crap. We all know those charges were bogus. They were in Hanoi at the time."

"There still is the robbery and escaping from Fort Bragg."

"Who's to say that the robbery charge wasn't faked?"

The arguments continued for an hour before the meeting disbanded. Nothing was resolved.

_____________________________________________________________________

Murdock looked through the window from the scaffold. 

Maybe Hannibal was right and this was a good diversion. The colonel had reamed Murdock for more than hour after he returned from the hospital the day before. The pilot had never seen his commander in such a fury. The colonel had yelled about increased security, taking unnecessary risks and screwing up their plan. Murdock recalled how he had stared sheepishly at the laces on his sneakers until the colonel finished yelling, ending with comments about how Decker probably had him followed.

Murdock insisted that was not the case, though he still could not understand why Decker had let him go. Even more, he did not understand why the MPs had not followed the van back to the motel. And they call me the crazy one, he mused.

When he had woken this morning, Murdock had expected Hannibal to still be fuming. Instead, the colonel had surprisingly announced that they were going to do something to take their minds off Face. Murdock had not argued. He knew that he'd screwed up, so he was going to toe the line and be a good soldier. If Hannibal thought a diversion was in order, Murdock would let himself be diverted. It was not completely succeeding, but Murdock didn't mind this job. After all, when you were as good a pilot as he was, heights didn't get to you.

BA on the other hand, looked ready to lose his lunch.

"Hang in there big guy," Murdock said as he pretended to squeegie the window. "Don't look down."

Even under his dark skin, BA looked green. "I'm gonna git' Hannibal" was all he kept saying.

"Come on, BA. Just set the charges and let's go."

BA placed the small devices on the corner of the office window. Through it, Murdock could see the dark mahagony furniture of Richard Lattimore's office. It had taken a while before they had found the right window and the pilot's shoulder hurt from the repetitive motion of the squeegie. He had been thankful that they had finally found Lattimore's corner office, identifying it by some of the plaques on the wall.

"Okay. Got it," said BA. "Let's git out of here."

BA quickly set the scaffold in motion. It only took seconds to reach the roof from the 53rd floor. They would be back later and, in the meantime, Murdock hoped that no one would wonder why the window washers never cleaned any of the building's other floors.

_____________________________________________________________________

The noise of the door woke Face from his nap. He turned his head to look at the doctor and immediately knew from her body language that she was angry. When she spoke, however, she tried to cover it by using a sickeningly sweet voice that did not fit her at all.

"Face, I need to talk with you about your physical therapy. I've been hearing that you are refusing to do your shoulder exercises."

"Don't see much point," he mumbled with as little emotion as possible. Face figured that if he told her the truth, she would go away.

"Face, you have to go through rehabilitation." She no longer sounded so cloying. "If you don't . . ."

He cut her off. "If I don't, what? I won't be able to wave at the firing squad?" Despite the gallows humor in the words, he said it tonelessly.

"Please, don't act like this. I know you're depressed." Her anger simmered to the surface as she spoke. "Damn it, Face. Why won't you at least try?"

He saw the look in her eyes. For the first time, he raised his voice. "Stop it, Doc. I don't want your pity. Why don't you find some other patients to annoy? Hell, you could definitely use some practice on your bedside manner."

Her face flushed bright red. He regretted his words the instant they escaped his lips and cursed himself for embarrassing her. But then, it seemed that nearly everything he did had unintended results.

He lowered his voice. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You're trying your best, but there's no point to it. Just go away, please."

Face felt Dr. Tanaka's hand touch his right arm, just above the cast. In a strong, low voice that sounded far more sincere than the phony voice she had used when she had first walked in, she responded, "I'm not going anywhere."

He thought he detected an undercurrent in what she said. No, Face, he chided himself. You're just imagining things. You only believe you have every woman figured out.

He turned away from her and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Maybe if he started counting the ceiling tiles again, she would go away.

"Ooooohhhh," she hissed, even as she tried to stifle the sound of her frustration. "Look at me, Face . . . I'm warning you . . . If you don't, I'm going to break out my dog monologue again. You've only heard the first part."

That, thinking of "rats and retrievers," was probably a fate worse than death. Reluctantly, he turned his head back towards her. Apparently satisfied that she had his attention, she continued.

"Face, all I am asking is for you to do your therapy. Nothing more. I won't leave until you promise me that you will work with the therapist."

He wondered how she knew he could never pass up a negotiation.

"If I agree, you'll leave?" he asked.

She flushed again. "If that's what you want, yes."

"I agree then."

She spun around and walked out in a huff. As he watched her, he kept reminding himself that she was not his type. Maybe if things were completely different, he thought. Maybe.

_____________________________________________________________________

Sitting in his office at the hospital, Decker wondered at the way the past few days had turned everything upside down? Talking with Peck, seeing the tangible proof of the horrors the other man had suffered and then listening to the crazy pilot had changed something in Decker. For much of his adult life, he had chased Smith, Baracus and Peck without hesitation. First, when he replaced Lynch and, later, when he took charge again after the A-Team escaped the firing squad. In all that time, he had never doubted their guilt. That the A-Team had robbed the Bank of Hanoi was something he never questioned.

Now he had too many questions.

Admittedly, he had always wondered why Smith and Baracus would rob a bank. Sure he knew Smith broke rules to achieve objectives, but robbing a bank never seemed quite Smith's style. Baracus, too. The sergeant was muscle, definitely not the brains of the outfit. He certainly would never have thought of robbing a bank.

No, in Decker's mind, Smith and Baracus were not the driving forces. No, Decker had always pictured Peck as the one behind the robbery. Maybe not the actual plan -- that would have been Smith's -- but the idea itself. It sounded like the type of scheme Peck would have proposed. And it meshed with his background. The poor orphan, already known to be a con artist, had come up with a way to come home from the war a wealthy man. Decker had always assumed that Peck had conned Smith into thinking that the bank robbery was a good idea; that maybe it would help the war effort.

As long as he pictured Peck as the mercurial conman Decker saw during his years of chasing the A-Team, Decker could believe that Peck had been the instigator. But those beliefs no longer sustained Decker. Not now. Murdock had talked about loyalty and friendship -- and described Peck as someone who had saved Murdock's life. Didn't conmen care only for themselves? Plus, no matter how good a con artist Templeton Peck was now, he had been only nineteen at the time of the robbery and less than a year beyond the physical and emotional horrors demonstrated by the scars he carried. In the past few days, Decker had learned that the real Templeton Peck was someone completely different from the glib conman that the colonel had always believed him to be. Decker had seen that real man -- almost a haunted child -- in the aftermath of the nightmare.

Decker realized that he no longer believed that Templeton Peck had instigated the robbery.

And if that was the case, what did it mean about the rest of the team?

_____________________________________________________________________

As they had driven back from Lattimore's building, they had heard the news. Police barricades had been placed on all of the streets surrounding the Cedars Sinai Medical Center. No traffic was being permitted between Melrose and Burton Way and between La Cienega and Robertson.

BA knew that the increased security destroyed any plan of rescuing Face. There now was no way to get within three blocks of the entrance and, with Face in his condition, there was no way they could get him to a vehicle that far away.

When they got back to the motel, he had made up a story about feeling a shimmy in the front end of the vehicle. Something he needed to fix before they returned to the building that night. The truth was that he just needed to get away and be alone. So BA now found himself sitting in the back of the van, letting his silent tears fall.

He rarely ever cried, and never in front of the other team members. He was supposed to be the physically strongest member of the team. And strong men like him never cried. But sometimes, he felt like a child. It was a side he was embarrassed to show to the others, so he usually slipped away and let his tears fall when no one was looking.

Thinking about Face trapped in that hospital room only caused the tears to flow more rapidly. BA knew that the crazy fool had fucked up their chance at a rescue. He didn't really blame Murdock. The man was crazy, wasn't he? No, BA blamed himself. He shoulda stopped Murdock. He shoulda hid the keys to the van so the crazy fool couldn't find them. He shoulda done something. Anything.

Now the Faceman was gonna die. First they'd abandoned him. Now they'd screwed up the only chance to save him.

BA continued to cry.

_____________________________________________________________________

Dr. Tanaka could not stop confronting her patient over his apparent willingness to give up. What was it about Templeton Peck that was so exasperating?

She tried to reason with him, but he seemed resigned to his death. They had not even scheduled his execution, but he had dictated a will and had just spoken to Decker about arranging for a priest to give him Last Rites. When she heard about that, she had hit the roof and immediately confronted him.

"I will not have you talking about dying in here," she had commanded.

"I'm sorry doctor," he had answered tonelessly. "It's kind of a big issue for me right now."

"Your job, Face, is to recover from your injuries. I will not have my staff laid low by the realization that they are helping you get better only so you can let yourself die. Don't you realize how much this hurts them?"

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she had realized how ridiculous it had sounded. But what else was she going to say? Don't die, because I couldn't stand it. She was a doctor, after all. She saw death all the time. 

It was just that she had never seen someone so young so willing to accept death without a fight. He had saved so many other people from death, but was unwilling to fight for himself. Or even for the people that cared for him. For Hannibal, BA and Murdock.

For her.

He had looked at her then. Something about the way he had looked at her had made her feel as if his eyes were boring into her soul. She had felt exposed completely and had wondered if he could really tell what she was feeling.

"Tell your staff that I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt them."

He had continued to stare at her.

"I never meant to hurt you."

The conversation had ended only moments before. Now, immediately outside his room, she tried to hide her tears from the guards.

_____________________________________________________________________

Seeng the doctor trying to fight her tears as she left the room only confirmed what Face had already decided. No matter what he did, he kept hurting people. He knew the world would be a far better place without him.

Face had taught himself to accept death. He accepted it now.

Across the room, the blond woman nodded.

**End Part 2**


	3. Default Chapter Title

**__**

Scars, Part 3

Hannibal and Murdock entered from the darkness through the hole in the window. The vacuum caused by the exploding glass had strewn the contents of Lattimore's office around the room. The mess didn't concern Hannibal. He figured that whatever they might find -- whatever that might be -- would not be out in the open. Instead, while Murdock momentarily sealed the hole with plastic sheeting, Hannibal started searching through the desk.

Hannibal did not really like how sloppy this job had been. If Face had been around, he would have had the lieutenant impersonate a lawyer and sneak into the office when it was empty. He tried to suppress the thought; he could not think about Face right now. The whole point of this adventure was to provide a distraction.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Murdock start rifling through a file cabinet. Hannibal found nothing in the desk and turned to the credenza, catching the wall of photographs behind the desk. They showed Richard Lattimore with dozens of major elected officials. One showed Lattimore shaking hands with President Bush. Another had him and the California governor. Pretty much every major California Republican was represented on the wall. Plainly, the lawyer had significant connections.

Getting back to business, Hannibal returned his attention to the credenza. He was not too concerned about time. He figured it would be another 20 minutes, at least, before the cleaning crew managed to get out of the stuck elevator. For a second he allowed himself to chuckle at the picture of the poor sots stuck in one of BA's little mechanical tricks.

The credenza held only reference books. Nothing that struck Hannibal as a clue. Looking up to peruse the rest of the office, he heard Murdock speak.

"Bingo, Colonel."

"What do you have, Captain?"

"There's a false back in this cabinet, but I can't find the latch."

"Let me see that." Hannibal walked over to inspect the cabinet. Sure enough, behind the files in the bottom drawer, there was a metal plate about three inches from the back of the drawer. Hannibal looked for a lock, but did not see one. Then, feeling along the side of the drawer, he felt a small indentation in the metal. Pressing slightly, he felt the metal give and then a click as the metal plate fell forward. Behind it were some files and a book.

He quickly skimmed the documents. Confident that they held some answers, Hannibal ordered Murdock to remove the plastic sheeting, stuffed the materials into the backpack he was carrying and the two climbed out the window onto the window cleaner's scaffold. Within minutes, they met up with BA on the roof and were gone.

_____________________________________________________________________

The next morning, another meeting convened across the country. Most of the same opinions that had been voiced for the preceding weeks were being expressed; little new was added. Finally, in exasperation, the man in charge threw up his hands in frustration.

"Gentlemen, we've been through this. As I see it, we have three options. Now we're going to put it to a vote."

After counting the votes, the leader dismissed the others. After they had left and he was alone in the room, he picked up a phone. "We've come to a decision."

_____________________________________________________________________

Murdock was looking over Hannibal's shoulder at the files they had removed from Lattimore's office. According to the colonel, the documents revealed that Lattimore had been receiving payments from a suspected drug dealer. The book detailed money-laundering schemes that Lattimore had set up. But what, if anything, did this have to do with the assault at Il Trovatore?

"What do you think, Captain?"

Murdock was surprised by the question. Hannibal rarely asked his opinion about things like this. He might ask what Murdock thought about a plane or helicopter, but legal and financial stuff? That was Face's expertise.

Even the brief thought of his best friend sobered him. A few hours ago, they had received a message from the doctor. Face was going to be transferred to a top-security facility within the week and Murdock knew there was no way to get Face out of the hospital.

Murdock knew he had screwed things up by going to the hospital. According to the news reports, there were unconfirmed rumors that security was stepped up because an unknown intruder had managed to nearly get into Templeton Peck's hospital room. Murdock knew that the new security probably scuttled whatever plans Hannibal might have had. The colonel had not said anything to that effect, but the captain knew his C.O. well enough to read it in his eyes.

Murdock also knew that Hannibal would never say what he really believed: that Murdock had probably condemned Face to his death.

"I don't have a clue, Hannibal. You know I'm not good at stuff like this."

Shoving his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket, Murdock started for the door. Maybe a walk would make him feel better. He had promised to stay away from the park, but he needed some air. As he was about to leave, he heard Hannibal's voice from behind him.

"I miss him too, Murdock."

"I know, Hannibal."

Murdock turned the knob and was nearly knocked over by BA racing into the room.

"Quick. Ya gotta see this."

BA hurried to the TV that the motel had replaced only that morning, flicked it on and found the local news. The impossibly bland anchorwoman was talking to an equally bland reporter stationed in front of Cedars Sinai. Behind the reporter, the ever-present protesters were cheering and hugging one another.

"That is correct, Wanda," said the reporter. "Representatives of the Joint Chiefs of Staff are meeting right now with Lieutenant Templeton Peck. We do not know the details, but the army is expected to announce the pardon at a press conference later this afternoon."

Murdock fell down on the nearest bed. The shock of the reporter's words mixed with the relief flooding through him as the thoughts swirled around in his brain.

A pardon.

No firing squad.

Faceman's gonna live.

I haven't killed my best friend.

He sank his head into his hands, barely able to catch his breath. This was the best possible news. Sneaking a glance at the colonel from behind his hands, Murdock could see Hannibal grinning from ear to ear as he watched the broadcast intently. A light that had been missing from Hannibal's eyes had suddenly returned. When had that light gone out? Murdock had never noticed. Had he really thought Hannibal was being callous about Face? Had he actually believed that Hannibal didn't care?

Did it even matter any more?

Face was going to live. That made everything all right with the world.

______________________

An hour later, the three men still sat watching the news coverage. The reporter and anchorwomen were repeating the same news.

"Kelly," said the placid anchorwoman. "So what have you heard from inside the hospital."

"Not much, Wanda. All we know is that several staff members have come outside to celebrate with the crowd. As you know, very little has been said recently about Lieutenant Peck's current condition or how he has coped with being held prisoner in the hospital. We can only speculate whether the hospital will be more forthcoming after the pardon."

"Kelly, is there any word on whether the pardon will apply to the rest of the A-Team?"

"At the moment, we do not have that information. We have been told that the military will reveal the details later." The reporter paused for a moment and extender her arm out. "Wanda, with me right now is Nadine Rogers, the head of the coalition that called on the government to pardon Lieutenant Peck. Ms. Rogers, you have been out here for more than a week now. How do you feel about this news?"

"Oh, we couldn't be happier. This is going to correct a grave injustice and give back the life that this country promised Templeton Peck. We're thrilled."

"Ms. Rogers, what do you think . . ."

"Turn it off BA," commanded Hannibal.

Murdock jerked his head around to look at the leader. The smile was gone and the gleam that had been in his eyes only an hour ago had been replaced by a distant look. Hannibal also was chewing on a cigar. He looked disturbed.

"But why, Hannibal? This is good news. We're gonna git pardons," BA said.

Not necessarily, ya big lug, Murdock thought. It suddenly dawned on Murdock why the news was unsettling to Hannibal.

"They said Face was gonna get pardoned, big guy," Murdock corrected. "They don't know 'bout you and Hannibal."

"But they gotta pardon us all," BA insisted. "We're a team."

"BA," Hanibal answered as he took a deep breath. The colonel's head lowered slightly, as if he did not want to look BA in the eye. "You know that's not true. They don't have to pardon all of us. They could let Face go to satisfy the public. You and me are an afterthought."

"Tha' ain't right, Hannibal."

"I know, BA," Hannibal responded quietly. "But we have to face that possibility. Remember when Face got that fake pardon several years ago?"

Murdock had been thinking the same thing. Face had been pardoned as part of a plot to smoke out a Vietnamese general who blamed Face for dishonoring the general's daughter. Taking the pardon as a chance for a normal life, Face had decided to leave the team. Murdock remembered the look on Hannibal's face when the lieutenant announced he was leaving. The colonel had tried to hide it, but he had been so furious, so betrayed. And that fury hardly abated when a chastened Face came back after learning the whole thing was a set-up. Hannibal had kicked Face around like a beaten puppy. Months passed before Face could even look Hannibal in the eye.

"Do you think this pardon is bogus, Colonel?" Murdock looked at Hannibal as he spoke. The older man looked tired and troubled.

"I'm not sure what to think," Hannibal slowly answered. "Maybe the pardon is legit. Last time it came right out of the blue, but now there is a good reason and political pressure behind it. Who knows? They may even pardon the whole team."

Murdock knew there was a "but" coming.

"But," Hannibal added slowly, "something about this whole situation bothers me. The restaurant could be totally unrelated to the pardon, but I think if we can get to the bottom of the shooting, I just have a hunch it might clear things up. It may just be a gut instinct, but I've learned to trust my instincts."

Murdock nodded. Even though he had been furious with Hannibal since the shooting, the pilot also trusted Hannibal's instincts. They had spent too many years together for Murdock not to.

Too many years together, he repeated in his mind. The words forced his thrill at the news of the pardon to flee and be replaced by a realization. If Face got pardoned, he would leave the team. Hadn't he tried it before -- with the fake pardon and when he tried to run away from Stockwell? But if this pardon was real, nothing would hold Face back. And, if Face was the only one pardoned, that would leave the team -- which Murdock could never leave -- still on the run. Without Face.

Perhaps sensing what Murdock was thinking, Hannibal stood up from the bed where he had been sitting, crossed the room and patted Murdock on the shoulder.

"Come on, Murdock. Cheer up. Just think. This solves our immediate problem." Without waiting for Murdock to respond, Hannibal continued. "They're not gonna shoot Face and they'll probably pull the MPs out so we can see him. Then we can figure out what this all means."

"Sure Hannibal," he nodded in response, forcing himself to give the colonel a weak smile. "I'm gonna go take a walk now." Seeing BA look up in his direction, Murdock raised his hands, palms-up in mock surrender. "Don't worry big guy. I won't need backup."

Turning to the door, Murdock thought of his best friend. He was happy for Face. He was happy for himself that he would not have to live with the guilt of killing his best friend. Murdock just wondered what it meant for the team.

__________________________________________________________________

"You're saying what?!?" Face could hardly believe what the man in the general's uniform was telling him. He glanced at Decker to gauge the colonel's response, but he could see that Decker was as surprised as he was.

"Your pardon is conditioned on your agreeing not to have any contact with Colonel John Smith and Sergeant Bosco Baracus, known members of the A-Team. Or Captain H.M. Murdock, a suspected associate of the team."

Face rapidly shook his head. "You can't ask me to do that."

"That is the condition, Lieutenant. If you violate that agreement, your pardon will be revoked and you will be immediately arrested. Or, if you refuse to agree, you will be executed as scheduled."

Face looked down at the floor from his chair, still shaking his head. He could not believe it. He was being offered a new life, but only if he abandoned the team. He tried to picture what Hannibal would say -- how betrayed the colonel would feel. Face knew he could probably agree to almost anything in exchange for his freedom, but not that. Sure he had tried to leave the team before, but even then, knowing he could change his mind, he had never been able to go it alone. He had spent more than half his life with Hannibal, Murdock and BA. They were his family or, at least, the only family he had ever known. He could never agree to give that up.

Besides, he had been duped before by promises of a pardon. First, with that fake pardon. Second, by Stockwell. Face was not going to be suckered again.

Just as he was about to tell the general where he could shove his pardon, Decker spoke up.

"General, sir. I'm sure this news has surprised Lieutenant Peck. If I were in his shoes, this whole thing would be pretty overwhelming. Now you're telling him that he has to suddenly give up all contact with the men who have shared his life for twenty years. He has to be confused. Can't we give the Lieutenant a few days to think about it before he gives an answer?"

General Richland mulled Decker's question over for a few minutes. "I guess we can postpone the press conference til tomorrow, but," he turned to Face, "I'll need your answer by 0900 tomorrow. Or the execution goes ahead in two weeks." He did a quick about-face and headed to the door.

Face started to call after the general to say what he really thought of the offer, but Decker put a hand over Face's mouth.

"Don't say anything you might regret," warned the colonel. When the general had left the room, Decker released his hand.

"Now why did you do that?" Face whined.

"Because you were going to tell the general to stick his pardon up his ass."

Face nodded in response. "So? I figured you of all people would be glad."

"Maybe, kid, you haven't figured me out as well as you think."

Before Face could reply, Dr. Tanaka burst through the door and looked at him expectantly. "Is it true? It's all over the news. Is the team really being pardoned?"

Despite her excitement, Face could not answer. How could he be pardoned, but not Hannibal and BA? Decker answered for him.

"The team is not being pardoned. Lieutenant Peck might be pardoned."

"Might?" she asked. "How can he 'might' be pardoned?"

"I have to agree never to see Hannibal or BA or Murdock. I . . . I'm not sure I can agree to that."

Decker squatted next to Face so he could look the younger man in the eye.

"Now listen, Peck. You're going to accept the pardon, no matter the conditions."

"Decker," Face growled. "You're not my C.O. You don't give me commands."

"I do here, and I am not going to let you piss your life away when you have a chance to live."

Face knew his jaw was hanging loosely and he was staring at Decker in stunned silence.

"Yeah, I know this sounds strange coming from me. But there's no reason for you to die if you don't have to. Damn it. It wouldn't be right."

Face slowly closed his mouth, before he responded. "Since when did you join our side, Colonel? Last I checked, you were the one interviewing applicants for the firing squad."

Still, Face could see that the older man was nearly as surprised by his own reaction to the news of the pardon as Face was. Decker stood and circled the room for a second. Putting a hand to his forehead, he ran it over his eyes and down his nose before he looked back at Face.

"You're right, Peck," he answered deliberately. "Until you were captured, I would have been the first to volunteer for that firing squad. But seeing what you did for those people in the restaurant and talking to you here has given me some doubts."

His eyes locked on Face's.

"Tell me, Lieutenant. Look me straight in the eye and tell me this. Did you kill Colonel Morrison?"

"No," Face responded without hesitation.

"Did Smith or Baracus have anything to do with it?"

"No. We were in Hanoi at the time. When we got back, we were told that Colonel Morrison was killed when the base was shelled." Face's eyes never left Decker's.

"What about the bank, Lieutenant? Whose idea was it to rob the bank?"

Again, Face did not flinch or move a muscle. "I don't know. Morrison gave us the orders. I was there -- with Hannibal -- when they were signed."

Decker looked away.

"I believe you, Lieutenant. I know you're a good liar . . . Probably the best the army has ever seen. But I don't think even you could look me in the eye and lie about that."

Decker took a deep breath. 

"I think you're innocent."

Face watched, realizing how difficult it had been for Decker to make that admission, but it made no difference. "So what, Decker? None of that matters now. We were convicted. And I won't abandon my unit."

"Don't think of it as abandoning them," Decker insisted as his voice rose. "Take the pardon for the time being. Recover from these injuries. If, after a few months, you change your mind, at least you'll still be alive."

"You know I'll be under surveillance."

"Sure, but it will be a few men. It won't be a fortress like this hospital."

"Face." Her voice made him jump. He had forgotten that the doctor was in the room. He could hear the pleading in her voice. "Take it. The Colonel's right. I'm sure the rest of your team would want you to live. Even if it meant they couldn't see you."

He thought about how the doctor had described her meeting with Hannibal. He knew what she was saying was true. But then Hannibal didn't know about the blond hostess. How could Face live with himself if he cheated death after causing hers? He looked up at the round eyes of Dr. Tanaka.

"I . . . have to think about it. I'm still not sure."

_____________________________________________________________________

A frantic Dr. Tanaka ran down the street to Chaya, figuring that she could use the quiet restaurant to make a telephone call. She had been debating getting a mobile telephone for a while, but she had not caved in to the pressure yet. Now she was lamenting that decision. Running into the restaurant, she found the pay phone and, with a quick glance in both directions to make sure she could not be overheard, dialed the motel's telephone number.

"Hello?" She could hear Hannibal's voice on the other end.

"Hannibal, it's Dr. Tanaka. I have to tell you something very urgent."

"Go ahead, doctor."

"Some general came to see Face this morning . . ."

"We heard on the news. He's going to be pardoned." She thought Hannibal sounded pleased, but was not totally sure. Well, he certainly was not going to like what she said next.

She hesitated. "Hannibal . . . umm . . . It's not that simple . . . You see . . . the pardon is conditional. Face has to agree not to have any contact with you, BA or Murdock. Ever."

All she could hear was silence.

"Hannibal? Hannibal, are you still there?"

"I'm here" came the quiet voice from the other end.

"Hannibal, you have to understand. Face is refusing to accept the condition. He would rather die than never see you again."

After a long pause, Hannibal spoke again. It sounded as if he had to keep stopping to breathe as he responded. Almost as if each word was being wrenched from him, leaving him bereft of air.

"Doc. . . Listen to me . . . very carefully . . . You have to make sure that Face accepts that pardon. Tell him . . . Tell him . . . I would rather never see him again and know he was alive than . . . than let him . . . be executed."

She knew she was nearly in tears, but she forced herself to sound calm. "I know. I told him that. But he wouldn't listen."

"Doc. . . You must convince him. Tell . . . Tell him that I order him to go out and get a white picket fence. Say it like that, and he'll know I said it. Tell him he has to accept. He can always change his mind when he is out of the hospital."

"He knows that," she replied. "Decker already told him that."

"Decker told him?" She could hear the surprise in his voice. "What does Decker have to do with this?"

But before she could reply, the phone cut off. She looked at the phone and saw a hand pressing down on the switchhook. Slowly, she allowed her eyes to wander up the hand, then the arm and then into the face of a glaring Colonel Decker.

_____________________________________________________________________

"BA, go find Murdock. I'll get our stuff together. We've got to get out of here now."

"What's up, Hannibal?"

"Someone overheard the doctor talking to me and cut the call. They'll check the LUGs and be here before we know it."

BA was out of the room in a flash. Hannibal began gathering everything he could. He figured it would take at least an hour, probably more, for the MPs to get the phone company to give them the information, but Decker might get lucky. Regardless, Hannibal wanted a head start.

Thinking of Decker made him remember what the doctor had said. Decker had actually told Face he could break the agreement later? Hannibal must have misheard her. Either that or Decker had been furious about the pardon and objected by pointing out a possible loophole.

Well the colonel couldn't worry about that right now. He had to get the team to safety. Hopefully, the doctor would find a way to get his message to Face. Finishing with the stuff in the room, Hannibal went next door to start putting Murdock's things together.

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker marched a still-struggling Dr. Tanaka into the room. Face looked up from the chair. He had not moved since they had left.

"Tell him," Decker ordered.

She looked terrified. Angrily, Face awkwardly began to rise out of the chair. A sudden pain in his stomach nearly doubled him over and he fell back.

"Let go of her, Decker," he said in the most ominous sounding voice he could muster. He hoped that would be enough, because he was in no position to do anything physically.

"Tell him," Decker insisted again.

"Okay, okay," she said twisting to free herself from his grip. Face could hear the fear in the doctor's voice as she spoke. She never looked at the soldier. "I just spoke with Hannibal. He ordered you to go out and get a white picket fence. He said you would understand what that means."

Face saw Decker let go of the doctor and approach the chair. The older man again leaned down so he could look the lieutenant in the face. "See, Peck. Colonel Smith wants you to take the pardon. I may not be your C.O., but he is."

Face nodded slowly. Hannibal wanted Face to live, even if meant never seeing one another again. He did not know if he could live with that, but it was an order. "Go have a real life" was what his C.O. had said. Face understood Hannibal's thinking, but the colonel had promised they would always be a team. This felt like he was being cut loose. Abandoned.

"Do you accept, Lieutenant?"

Hannibal had given an order.

"I repeat, Lieutenant. Do you accept?"

Hannibal had given an order.

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly, pausing before he added, "but on one condition."

"I'm not sure you're in a position to demand conditions, Lieutenant, but go ahead and ask."

"Promise me that you won't do anything to her for calling Hannibal. She . . . she was only doing what she thought was best for me."

Decker hesitated and looked at the doctor and then back at Face. "I accept your condition. Do we have an agreement?"

Face nodded. "Yes."

"I'll go let General Richland know." The colonel promptly walked out of the room.

Face could see Dr. Tanaka watching him. For some reason, despite his skill, he could not read her very well. He could tell she was no longer terrified, but he could not tell what was running through her mind.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"Oh, it was nothing," he said trying to wave as dismissively as possible with his right hand in a cast.

"No. I'm not thanking you for what you did for me. Thank you for accepting the deal. I don't know what I would have done if they had killed you."

Staring into her wide, dark eyes, he did not know what to say. So he fell back on what came naturally.

"So, Doc. Do you have a first name?"

_____________________________________________________________________

From one of their new motel rooms, Hannibal, BA and Murdock watched the press conference the next day. General Martin Richland announced that President Bush had granted a full pardon to Lieutenant Templeton Arthur Peck because of his heroic efforts in saving the lives of the hostages at the Il Trovatore restaurant in Los Angeles. The general also made a few comments about the need to accept that the Lieutenant's crimes had occurred long ago, during the Vietnam conflict, at a time when the nation was divided. He told the press that Lieutenant Peck had only been twenty-one at the time and it was time to forgive him. Together, perhaps, the nation could put to rest the divisiveness of that time, especially when the nation needed to pull together against Saddam Hussein.

Amy Allen asked the first question. "Why not pardon the rest of the A-Team? Did the President consider it?"

"I'm sorry. I am only at liberty to comment on Lieutenant Peck."

"What was Lieutenant Peck's reaction when you told him about the pardon?" came a question from one of the blond network reporters.

"He was overjoyed of course. How else do you think he would react to the news? I am certain that Lieutenant Peck will always look back at this date, November 2, 1990, as the greatest day of his life. Just think, in a few weeks, Lieutenant Peck will be able to celebrate his first Thanksgiving in nearly twenty years as a free man."

"Will Lieutenant Peck be invited to the White House?"

"I have no information on that at this time."

"General, what did Lieutenant Peck have for breakfast this morning?"

"Turn it off, B.A."

_____________________________________________________________________

A little more than two weeks later, Lieutenant Templeton Peck exited the hospital to great fanfare. Although his left shoulder was still immobilized and his right hand was in a cast, a local talent management company donated the use of a limousine until he was able to drive. A slew of old girlfriends stopped by "Jacob Temple's" apartment to make sure that he was properly fed. Entertainment Tonight and the local news media camped outside the building and reported his every move, even the fact that Lieutenant Peck celebrated Thanksgiving at Spago with a couple of executives from Universal.

One week after his release from the hospital, the trades reported that former Lieutenant Templeton Peck had obtained representation from a major talent agency. The agency urged the media to leave Lieutenant Peck alone for the moment, but promised that he would soon make himself available for interviews. The flow of women to the apartment appeared to stop, but the media frenzy barely abated.

The next week, after the casts came off his shoulder and hand, the man at the center of the storm appeared on nearly every major morning and late-night talk show. The ubiquitous Lieutenant Peck made the early rounds with Bryant and Joan and spent his nights with Johnny and Dave, although his decision to pass on Arsenio proved prescient.

Most of the interviews were about the Il Trovatore shootout and how he was coping with his new-found freedom. He said little about his twenty years on the run and refused to answer questions about the whereabouts of his former teammates. Judging from his television appearances, and despite his apparent movie-star looks, several commentators said that Lieutenant Peck was too "somber" to make it in Hollywood.

He also was named to two best-dressed lists, one most-beautiful-people list and three most-eligible bachelor lists. 

One week later, Lieutenant Peck disappeared.

In response to questions, his agent reported that the man had gone into seclusion so that he could recover from his injuries and "mull over some offers." The agent also announced that Lieutenant Peck had been named "Freedom Hero of the Year" by the Association for Freedom and Justice and would be honored at its Holiday Gala on December 29th in Santa Monica.

_____________________________________________________________________

Face's disappearance did not go unnoticed by the team, but Hannibal told them it was for the best. If the pardon was real, Face needed to get used to being on his own. Therefore, Hannibal ordered that Face be left alone and the colonel had seen to it that his orders be obeyed. Even Amy, who was not subject to any conditions, received orders to stay away from Face and refuse his telephone calls. Hannibal also had changed the van's telephone number so that Face could not contact them. "If Face wants to come back after he recovers, we will welcome him back. But we won't pressure him -- and we won't make any decisions for him," the colonel had said.

Murdock hated what Hannibal was doing. The pilot felt as if Hannibal had just cut Face loose without a thought for what it might be doing to the lieutenant. Murdock knew how Face felt about being abandoned and this seemed too close to abandonment for Murdock's comfort. He had thought that leaving Face behind at the restaurant and the hospital had been abandoning his best friend, but this felt, well, more permanent. Murdock was thankful that Face was alive. But knowing that, even if Face was just around the corner, they had to act like he wasn't there was unsettling. It was nearly as bad as if Face had died. At times, it felt even worse.

Hannibal assured the pilot that everything would be okay. After all, if there was a real emergency, the doctor had the team's new phone number and would give them a call.

In his head, Murdock knew Hannibal was right; Face needed to make the decision on his own. Murdock's heart was another matter.

Still, Murdock had nearly gotten Face killed by going off half-cocked to the hospital. The captain kept telling himself that he could not repeat that mistake again. For now, he would obey his commander and do his best to keep his simmering anger in check.

So now, two weeks after he had last seen Face reciting Dave's "Top Ten Things You Can Do with a .357 Magnum," Murdock sat back in the storage closet and waited for the signal.

_____________________________________________________________________

"Mr. Drexel. Mr. Lattimore is ready to see you."

Hannibal sat up from the couch. BA picked up the large document case and moved into position to follow the colonel. The receptionists eyes nearly popped out of her head as she looked at the large man with the mohawk.

For effect, BA gave her a wicked glare and nearly burst into laughter when she began to turn green. He always enjoyed the effect he had on people, particularly snooty receptionists in fancy high-rises.

"Come now, BA. Play nice," Hannibal whispered, turning around to the sergeant.

BA grinned at Hannibal and then directed his grin at the receptionist. If anything, she turned even greener.

"Um, um, please follow me." She quickly led them to a conference room. BA suspected that she would have sprinted if it were possible. But somehow, from the look of the place, he figured someone had circulated a memo prohibiting running in the halls.

"Thank you, ma'am," Hannibal said in his best southern drawl as he tipped his cowboy hat. He sat down in the chair closest to the door and made a point of adjusting his string tie. BA would have laughed at Hannibal's get up if it weren't for the fact that the colonel had made his sergeant put on a black suit and tie. Hannibal had even made him remove his chains. If anything, BA figured that he looked even more ridiculous than Hannibal. Taking the black case, he set it down beside Hannibal and took his position, looking every part the bodyguard he was supposed to be.

"You're welcome, Mr. Drexel. There is coffee and water on the counter behind your . . . umm . . . assistant. Mr. Lattimore will be here in a few minutes."

"Your hospitality is much obliged," Hannibal rejoined as she closed the door and left them in the wood-paneled room.

BA was impatient. It had taken weeks to set up this meeting. First, they had to get their cover story, something that, without Face, turned out to be more difficult than any of them had expected. Then, before they could get to the man, Lattimore had gone to a private resort in the Bahamas. They had debated going after the man, but BA refused to fly and Murdock insisted that the team stay in Los Angeles in case Face tried to join them. So the time had passed.

"I don' like this, Hannibal. Why aren't we in Lattimore's office like we planned?"

"I don't know, Sergeant. They've had plenty of time to repair the damaged window. Don't worry. At least we're not in a conference room with glass windows. We'll be in and out before you -- or they -- know it." Hannibal's eye twinkled and BA knew his commander was on the jazz.

Before BA could tell Hannibal that he still didn't like it, the doorknob turned and the door opened. Lattimore walked in, followed by two young kids who looked like they were still in their teens. In their dark suits and starched shirts, they looked like they had stumbled into their father's closet and decided to play "office." Lattimore shook Hannibal's hand, introduced the kids as his associates and then he and the kids walked around the table and sat down opposite Hannibal.

"So Mr. Drexel, as I understand it, you have a land use issue."

"You betcha, pardner. You see here, I've got a large Texas ranch outside Amarillo. Five-thousand acres. Got it when my mammy died. And I've been raising the best Texas longhorns you can breed ever since. Twenty-thousand head."

BA could see the two kids scribbling away on their notepads, trying to get Hannibal's every word. Raising a large hand over his mouth, BA coughed slightly to cover his snickers.

"And now the government wants to put a highway smack dab through some of my best grazing land. But it's more than just that. My mammy loved that part of the ranch and it would cause her to plum turn over in her grave to have people driving through that land. I'll pay whatever it takes to get stop that."

BA could almost see the dollar signs flashing in Lattimore's eyes. A California lawyer, a Texas millionaire for a client, cattle at stake and sentimental value. Lattimore must be thinking that he'd won the lottery.

"Well, Mr. Drexel," the lawyer said. "I think we can probably be of service. But first, I'm going to have to ask you some questions about the ranch and the family history."

BA tuned out during most of the questions. He knew Hannibal was prepared for anything Lattimore might ask. Even if Lattimore had one of the kids search the property records, it would check out. Face had made some good investments for the team and the ranch Hattie Drexel left her son Samuel has been one of the more profitable ones.

BA zoned back into the conversation just in time to hear Lattimore finish describing a possible course of action and promising to do some "extensive" research into Texas "takings" law. BA also thought he heard the "ka-ching!" of a cash register, but that might have just been his imagination. At about the same time, he noticed that the kids were beginning to put away their pens.

Hannibal then spoke up. "I have to say I'm mighty impressed with the ways you boys do business out here, Lattimore. You know, there might be one more thing you could do for me." Hannibal gave the lawyer a smile.

Lattimore sat back with a smug look on his face. "Ask away."

Hannibal pretended to look embarrassed for a second. Then he leaned across the table and sort of whispered, "This is kind of a personal matter. I'm not sure it's appropriate to talk about it in front of these calves here. It's sort of the thing meant for only bulls to talk about, if you get my meanin'."

Lattimore nodded and winked in a knowing fashion. "David, Kirk, why don't you wait outside in the hall for a few minutes. We can talk about the research I need you to do when I've finished with Mr. Drexel." They quickly circled the table, skirted around BA and exited. BA mentally complimented the fat man across the table for training his dogs so well.

"So tell me, Mr. Drexel, what kind of problems need the services of a bull?" The lawyer gave the colonel a conspiratorial wink.

Hannibal leaned over and opened the document carrier. He pulled out one of the files the team had removed from the lawyer's office and put it on the table. Without a trace of accent, he spoke.

"I'm thinking about going into the restaurant business."

The lawyer turned white as the color drained from his face. He started to jump up, but BA quickly circled the table and pushed the man down by his shoulder.

"Don't move, sucka."

"Please let me go," Lattimore begged.

Hannibal pulled out a cigar and lit it. "According to these records, you've been working for Raul Ybarra. Cleaning his dirty money and doing a good job of it."

"What do you want? I can pay you." 

Hannibal laughed ominously and blew a cloud of smoke in the fat man's face. "I don't want your dirty money. I want to know why you were in the restaurant when the hit went down."

"Ybarra told me to be there," the other man answered quickly. The sweat was beginning to run down his face and BA suspected he had lost control of some of his other bodily functions by the smell of things.

"Man, Hannibal, it stinks in here."

Lattimore's eyes went wide as BA's words sunk in. He glanced in terror at BA and then at Hannibal.

"You're . . . You're the A-Team." 

"Guess all that money on law school probably was good for something," Hannibal smirked.

"Y-you . . . " Lattimore stammered as he looked back at BA, "you were at the restaurant."

Hannibal continued to smirk. "Yeah, you probably should have noticed that when you came in. See BA, I told you guys like this never pay attention to hired help." Hannibal's smile disappeared quickly, however, as he put his face close to Lattimore's and continued in a low growl. "What did Ybarra tell you to do?"

"He s-said that I should g-go in there and plant a small packet of c-cocaine on one of the cooks. He said it d-didn't matter who. Just to do it. Then he told me to hang around in the restaurant with my wife for the show. He told me no one would get hurt. I don't think he counted on your man being there."

"Oh. I thing you're wrong there, Richie. I think Ybarra knew perfectly well that we were going be there. Why did he want to frame a cook?"

"He said the cooks were expendable. They're all illegals anyway. No one would care if they went to jail or were deported."

BA growled at the man's words. If it was possible for Lattimore to become more terrified, he did.

"If no one was supposed to get hurt, why did the robbers take hostages?" Hannibal asked the next question.

"I don't know." He cried out as BA applied more pressure to the shoulder.

"Come on Richie," Hannibal said in a voice that exuded disappointment. "Don't kid us. If the robbers were just supposed to put on a show, why didn't they leave when the drugs weren't there?"

"Hon . . . Honest. I don't know. I swear." The lawyer was nearly crying out of fear.

Hannibal grinned at the sergeant. "You know what, BA? I believe him." Turning back to the terrified man, the Colonel asked his next question. "What does this have to do with the pardon?"

"What?"

"The pardon. Templeton Peck. The man who shot the robbers. What does Ybarra have to do with the pardon?"

"Nothing!" Even BA could tell the man was lying.

"Don't disappoint me Richie. Tell me."

The lawyer started sobbing. "I can't tell you. He'll kill me."

Hannibal stood up from the table, grabbed Lattimore's tie and yanked the man across the table. "I don't like games. Especially when my men are being used as pawns. So, I wouldn't worry about Ybarra killing you. There won't be anything left for him."

"Oh god. Please. Please don't kill me. All I know is that Ybarra told me to give interviews and speeches. He told me to use my influence to help Peck get the pardon. He didn't tell me why. He said if I told anyone that it was his orders, he'd kill me. Please! You have to believe me!"

Hannibal let go of the tie and Lattimore slumped to the table. Fixing his cowboy hat and tie, Hannibal asked a final question. "Where is Ybarra?"

Still crying, although more softly, the lawyer answered, "I don't know. He calls me when he wants to meet. He hasn't called since Peck was pardoned. I have no way of contacting him. Honest."

Hannibal put the file back in the document carrier and motioned for BA to pick it up. Hannibal opened the door and BA blocked the view, so no one could possibly see the fat lawyer sprawled on the table. As they closed the door, Hannibal tipped his hat and called back, "Much obliged."

The two kids were standing in the hallway, apparently oblivious to what had taken place inside. As they passed by, BA could not resist.

"Let me give you some career advice, fools. Get a new job."

Then he and Hannibal started to run for the elevator.

_____________________________________________________________________

From his hiding place in the storage closet, Murdock heard the alarm go off. Hearing the security guards run by, he grabbed his satchel and motorcycle helmet and swiftly exited. He was surprised for a moment when he realized that the commotion was not coming from his right, where Lattimore's office was located, but around the corner to his left. It dawned on the pilot that the meeting had taken place in another part of the office. A conference room, he guessed.

A guard rushed up to him and demanded that he identify himself.

"I'm Joe Diggs from SpeedyBoy Messenger Service. Delivery in half the time or I'm not a Speedy Boy!" Murdock announced in a sing-song voice. For emphasis, he pointed at his t-shirt, with the Far Side-ripoff cartoon of a kid on a motorcycle. The billows of smoke trailing the cycle spelled out the word "SpeedyBoy."

With an annoyed look, the guard asked Murdock if he had seen an old guy with a cowboy hat and a black man with a mohawk go by.

"Yup. Saw them getting in the elevator."

The guard raced away and Murdock started in the direction of the conference room. He saw two young men being hustled away from the room and guards fanning out in all directions. A voice from inside the room was yelling at the top of his lungs. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!" Yup, Murdock thought. My timing's just about perfect.

Pulling the mini-listening device to his ear, Murdock stationed himself as far from the room as possible. He figured he was close enough to a secretarial station that anyone who saw him with his leather jacket and motorcycle helmet would figure he was just another messenger waiting for a package. From his position, he watched as the last of the guards left the room and followed Lattimore's order to "SHUT THE DAMN DOOR!"

Through the device, he heard the phone being dialed and a man answer.

"Report."

"You didn't tell me that they were gonna nearly kill me. The fucking A-Team nearly killed me. You don't pay me enough for this."

"Shut up, Lattimore. Did you do what I instructed?"

"Yes. I sent them after Ybarra."

"Good."

Before he could hear the rest, a tap on his shoulder caused Murdock to jump. The movement caused the earpiece to pop out and fall to his shoulder. The guard standing there looked surprised and started to reach for the device. Murdock grabbed it and started to back away.

"Damned hearing aid. Sorry, it does this when I get nervous."

The guard narrowed his eyes and stared at him. Finally deciding that the messenger was not a threat, he told Murdock that the guards had orders to clear the floor while the police investigated an assault on one of the attorneys at the firm. Feigning concern, Murdock allowed himself to be escorted to the elevator. Once inside, it dawned on him that the voice on the phone had sounded familiar. He just couldn't place it.

****

End Part 3


	4. Default Chapter Title

**__**

Scars, Part 4 

A few days after the assault on Richard Lattimore was kept out of the press, Dr. Nancy Tanaka exited the 101 freeway at the State Beaches exit and drove along the old Rincon Highway. For the past hour, as she had driven from L.A., she had repeatedly wondered why Face would leave the city and come up here. Looking at the ocean to the left, she admitted that it was beautiful, but still, Face could have found a place at the Marina or in Malibu. Why Ventura of all places?

And what possessed her to give up her Sunday to drive all this way to check on a patient? Even this patient.

She pulled into the entrance of the gated community and looked down the list of residents. Finding "Peck," she punched a button and dialed the corresponding number on the keypad. After five rings, she heard him answer.

"Yes?" said a drowsy voice.

"Face? Is that you?"

She could hear the suspicion crawl into the voice. "Who is this?"

"It's Nancy. Dr. Tanaka. I'm at your gate."

"Go away." The phone hung up.

She dialed again. And again. After the third time, he picked up.

"I said go away."

"Face, I drove all the way from Los Angeles to check on you. You missed your last two appointments with the psychiatrist. The hospital sent me to make sure everything is okay."

"Everything is fine."

"I need to check. Just let me in to take a look at you. Okay?"

"Then you'll go away?"

"Yes. Then I'll go away."

There was silence on the other end and she got ready to redial. Then the motor on the gate began to turn and it started to open. To Dr. Tanaka, even the gate seemed reluctant.

She drove down the private street, past many of the newly built, gargantuan houses that dwarfed their lots until she saw the house with the address Face had given the hospital. Compared to the houses around it, it was a shack. The weathered building looked like it had been built in the 1940s, when the occupants were carefully scanning the horizon for Japanese submarines. She knew a little about those times; her grandparents and parents had been interred at Manzanar.

Getting out of the car, she pulled her jacket close to her side to ward off the chill of the December air. She could smell the salt of the ocean and hear the pounding waves. Well, she thought, the house may not be much, but the view is probably out of this world.

She walked to the front door (or was it the back since the ocean side was probably the front) and knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, but again there was no response. Finally, she decided to walk around to the the ocean side (the front, she concluded) to see if she could find a way in.

She saw Face sitting on the deck.

He was a mess.

When she first saw him arrive at the hospital after the shooting, she could not have imagined how he could have possibly looked worse. This was worse. In the month since he had been released, Face had probably lost fifteen pounds. That was in addition to the weight he had lost in the hospital. His hair was stringy and unkempt and he looked like he had not bathed in days. Judging by the scraggly beard, he probably had not shaved in more than a week. And he was wearing only shorts and a thin t-shirt, despite the cold December air. At least, she thought as she tried to find something positive, he was wearing the brace they had given him when they removed the cast from his wrist.

As she approached, she could see the far-away look in his eyes as he stared out at the horizon. In the gray light of the day, she could not see the blue of his eyes. They looked as dark and gray as the pounding surf.

"Face?" she asked tentatively.

He continued to stare out at the ocean. Nancy hoped it was because he could not hear her over the noise of the waves.

"Face. Do you hear me?" she said louder.

"Can you see her?" he asked in a small, lost voice.

She followed his gaze to the water, but saw nothing. Taking a look around, all she saw were a couple of men in jogging suits and sunglasses. Surveillance on Face, she suspected.

"Who do you see, Face?"

He paused before speaking. "Don't. Don't call me that."

"Why?" she asked in surprise. "Isn't that your name?"

He shook his head. "Not anymore. Face is a member of a team."

She could see the forlorn look on his face. In a way, this grown man sitting in the cold seemed so childlike that she wanted to hug him. He seemed so lost.

"If you don't want me to call you Face, what do you want me to call you?" Trying to make light of the situation, she added, "I'm not going to start calling you Mr. Peck or Lieutenant."

He shrugged. "I guess I'm back to being Templeton." She could tell that the idea of that disturbed him, but it gave her an idea.

She kneeled down by his side and touched his arm slightly. She could feel him stiffen at the contact, but she did not remover her hand.

"Templeton . . . You know, that's a pretty big mouthful . . . Has anyone ever called you Tem? Sort of a variation on'Tim,' but unique in its own way."

He shook his head. "No. I've been called "Temp." Started with kids in the orphanage. To tease me when I got sent back by foster parents. The nuns and priests called me 'Templeton.'"

She hadn't known he was an orphan. The realization made her want to hug him even more. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was a doctor after all.

"Then I joined the army," he continued, "and Hannibal started calling me 'Face.'" He paused for a second and searched his memory. "I guess some women I dated also called me 'Temp.' Pretty much summed up the relationships. Fitting, in a way."

He said it so matter-of-factly, the lack of emotion confirming the severity of his depression. She knew he needed professional help, but if he would not see the psychiatrist, she was going to have to do what she could on her own.

"Well, is it okay if I call you 'Tem'?"

He looked away from the water and faced her for the first time since she had arrived. A slight smile crossed his face. His eyes seemed to focus, as if he had just come out of a dream.

"I'd like that."

She patted his arm again. "Tem . . ." The nickname sounded natural to her. "You asked me before if I could see her. Who did you see?"

He turned his head back to the ocean as the brief smile disappeared. "Allison," he whispered.

"Who's Allison?" She was terrified by the haunted look in his eyes.

"The woman from the restaurant."

Nancy thought back to the news reports that she had seen about the shooting. She could not recall anyone named Allison. Rather than confront Face -- Tem -- about that, she decided to play along.

"So you see Allison here?"

He nodded.

"What is Allison doing, Tem?"

"She just looks at me." He shut his eyes then, scrunching them like a child trying to block out a bad vision. "Please make her go away."

"Tem, I think you need some sleep and something to eat. When did you last get some food?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She could still see the haunted look in his eyes.

"Did you have any breakfast?"

He shook his head.

"What about dinner last night?"

"I . . . I . . . don't remember."

She took his hand as she stood up. "Why don't we go inside. You can take a shower and shave, while I prepare you some soup or something. Would you like that?"

He nodded in response as he stood up and walked to the sliding glass door leading into the house. As he opened it, she could see papers, dirty dishes and clothing strewn about. He weakly joked, "If I knew you were coming, I'd have straightened up."

Suppressing her shock at the sight, she answered, "That's okay. Why don't you get cleaned up and I'll see what I can scrounge up in the kitchen."

_____________________________________________________________________

Back in Los Angeles, the police began clearing the burned-out remains of the new BMW that had been struck by a semi-truck. As one would expect, the semi won. In the wreckage, the police found the registration and a business card indicating that the owner was one Richard D. Lattimore, managing partner of Roberts, Lattimore & Stone.

It was a damn shame, thought the officers on the scene. The guy had survived the hostage incident at Il Trovatore only to die like this, just two days before Christmas.

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy did not find much in the kitchen. There was little in the refrigerator, but she finally found a couple cans of chicken soup in a cabinet and some not overly stale pieces of bread that she toasted. She was just finishing her culinary masterpiece when Tem came out of the bedroom into the kitchen.

She had to admit to herself that he cleaned up well. His hair was still wet, but it was clean, and he had shaven. He had put on a nice pair of slacks and an Italian sweater. The blue in the sweater highlighted his eyes. For a moment, she wondered why she had ever thought his eyes might be green.

He sat down at one of the bar stools across the kitchen counter from her.

"I've fixed some soup and toast for you," she announced, setting the bowl on the bar.

Silently, he picked up the spoon with his good left hand and started to eat. Despite the initial hesistancy in his movement, he was soon gobbling the bread and scooping the soup as fast as he could. From his voraciousness, Nancy could tell that, in addition to forgetting his dinner, he probably had forgotten to eat lunch and breakfast the day before.

"Whoa, Tem. Slow down. You'll make yourself sick."

He slowed down a bit, but quickly finished the meal. The whole time he ate, he never looked at her once. Finishing, he took the bowl, mutely came around the bar into the kitchen and, almost like a robot, put the bowl in the sink. Seeing his actions, Nancy had to giggle.

Seeing Tem's head jerk up at the sound of her laugh, she tried to explain. "Considering the surroundings, I figured you'd drop the bowl on the floor and use it for a biology experiment."

He looked around as if he was seeing the living room for the first time. As if in guilt, he dropped his head. Some of his hair fell forward into his face.

Without thinking, Nancy reached forward to push the hair back, brushing her hand against his forehead. His hand suddenly grabbed hers and he held it against his face. She saw his eyes close and he turned his head to nuzzle her forearm.

Then he kissed her arm.

It felt like a bolt of lightning struck her and she felt her knees buckle. He continued to rain kisses on her arm, moving from her wrist to her elbow. She felt herself being pulled close and found herself looking into his open eyes.

They still had the lost, haunted look, but she ignored that, closed her eyes and waited for his kiss. When it came, she was not disappointed. She felt the electricity again and knew that she wanted this man more than anyone ever before. She helped him remove his sweater and ran her hands through his still-wet hair. As he began fumbling one-handed with her blouse, she began running her hands down his back, feeling the scars that she had only seen before in the hospital.

The hospital. The thought startled her and forced her to push him away.

"Oh my god," she started. "I'm so sorry . . . But I can't . . . I can't do this."

She could see it in his eyes -- the anguish, the doubt, the rejection. She could see his tears begin to form, but before they could fall, he raced through the living room and out the door towards the gray waves.

"Wait!" she called after him. "You don't understand."

_____________________________________________________________________

Hannibal fired his 9mm repeatedly at the target. What he really wanted to do was punch something, but, for the moment, coming down to the firing range was the best alternative.

He kept telling himself that leaving Face alone to recover and to decide what he wanted was the best thing to do. Hannibal kept repeating that mantra to the team, as if through repetition, they would all come to believe it. He stood firm in that decision in front of the team, but here, with BA and Murdock in the motel, Hannibal could entertain his doubts. 

Hannibal knew that Face had always wanted his freedom and a chance at a "normal" life. Hannibal remembered how easy it had been for Face to walk out on the team when he received the fake pardon and again, later, when Face tried to leave during a Stockwell mission. If Face wanted to pursue that life now, Hannibal had to support that. So Hannibal had decided to give Face some space.

But Hannibal could not deny how excruciating his decision had been. Face was Hannibal's son, or at least the closest thing he would ever have to a son. For twenty years, Hannibal had done his best to protect the young man. In Vietnam, Hannibal had tried to save Face from, or at least help him deal with, the terrors of war. After the war, he had tried to help Face come to terms with the fact that he might never get the life he had always wanted. After all that time, the idea of Hannibal just leaving his son to face the world all alone tore at him. Hannibal woke up every day wanting to call Face, just to see how he was doing, just to hear the young man's voice. Every day, Hannibal managed to suppress that desire.

He knew his desire was selfish. Face could not have any contact with the team. It was a door that swung both ways. Just as Face could not contact the team, the team could not contact Face. Even a telephone call from Hannibal would violate those conditions. One call could dictate Face's future, but it would be wrong for Hannibal -- or any other member of the team -- to make that decision for the lieutenant. So Hannibal did not make the call and he made equally sure that BA and Murdock did not know where Face was living or how to contact him.

It was for the best, but it still hurt like hell. Hannibal loaded another clip and pumped the target full of lead.

_____________________________________________________________________

Two hours after Face ran off, he returned to the house. Almost. Nancy looked out through the glass doors and saw him sitting on the deck staring out at the water. Moving quietly, she opened the doors and went to him.

He was so absorbed in the motion of the waves, he did not hear her approach. He was wearing only the slacks he had put on earlier, leaving him shirtless in the cold. Coming closer, she could see the white of the angry scars set off against his darker skin.

She touched his shoulder near one of the marks, a burn she suspected. This time he did not flinch.

"It's not a pretty sight, is it?" he said. "I guess when you unwrapped the package, you learned the truth. I'm as disfigured on the outside as I am inside."

"That's not true, Tem," she insisted.

"Of course it's true," he snapped. "You don't want me. Why should I have thought you were any different? No one ever has ever wanted me. No one could care about me."

"You are so wrong," she said. She hoped she was able to make her voice sound soothing to mask the anger that she felt at the thought of this man feeling rejected. "A lot of people care about you. Hannibal. BA. Murdock. They all care."

He viciously shook his head from side to side. "They don't. If they cared, they wouldn't have left me. I tried calling them, but they even cut me off from that."

"Tem. This is something you've got to do on your own. Hannibal knew you'd run to the team the first chance you got. He wants you to see the kind of life you could have without being on the run."

She spoke the truth. Hannibal had explained it to her only a few days earlier, but she could not tell if Face understood. 

"You may reject that life, Tem," she continued. "But at least you'll know what's out there."

He looked up from the water into her eyes. The confusion and pain in his eyes mimicked the turmoil of the ocean surf.

"She said no one would ever want me. That no one could ever love a killer like me."

"Who?" her mind reeled. Then, remembering his cryptic comments earlier, she asked, "Allison?"

He nodded. "You pushing me away proved it."

"Tem. That's not it at all." She thought about how she could explain without sounding like an idiot. Or some damn ethics professor. "I'm a doctor. Your doctor. I have responsibilities to you. Don't you see? No matter how much I care about you, what happened in there -- what almost happened -- would have been wrong. I'm not supposed to get this close."

She could see him thinking for a moment. After a long silence, he nodded. She could tell that he understood, but she also saw the hurt that still shone in his eyes. She wondered if he could see how much she was hurting too.

She sighed and ran her arm over his bare shoulder. Touching him suddenly reminded her why she had come out. "Here, you left this inside," she said giving him the sweater.

He took it, but made no effort to put it on. Holding it in his lap, he spoke again.

"You want to know something funny?" he asked. "The scars aren't the worst of it."

She did not say anything. She could tell that his eyes were seeing something far away, or perhaps, long ago.

"They beat me. Used every kind of torture I could imagine. But I figured I was stong enough to take their worst. No matter what kind of humiliation they could think of, I knew I could survive . . ."

His voice had taken on almost a childlike quality. She could almost hear the fear and terror in the way his voice quivered.

"I never told anyone about it. Not Murdock. Not Hannibal. But they brought a girl in. God, she was only a child. They threatened to kill her if I didn't cooperate . . ."

He grew silent as his eyes widened. She could tell he was struggling to get the words out.

"Tem, you don't have to go back there."

He shook his head as he continued to remember. "I could have saved her, but I c-couldn't. So many other people would have died . . . I kept begging them to kill me instead . . . but they just laughed. She was so scared when they shot her. And it . . . it was all my fault."

She realized her arm was still on his shoulder and pulled him closer towards her. He responded by burying his head in the crook of her arm. This time, there was nothing romantic about it. She felt like a mother trying to soothe a child.

"I was such a coward. I . . . I should have saved her."

"Tem. That's not true. You did everything you could. You couldn't betray everyone else."

"I've told myself that. That's how I've lived with myself for this long. But . . ." His voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"After the war . . . I swore that I would never let someone die because of me . . . I said I would die . . . before I killed an innocent."

His choice of words made her furious. She knew he was blaming himself for the restaurant. But he had no control over what happened there. She didn't try to restrain herself as she grasped both his shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. Angrily, she insisted, "Listen here. You had no choice in there. Those guys were gonna shoot everyone in there. You can't really think they were innocent." 

"But . . ."

"No buts, Tem. Stop blaming yourself. I won't hear any more of this." 

He pulled out of her arms and looked at her. Something flashed in his eyes. She saw some hurt, some confusion, but it passed. Her own anger dissipated and she was relieved when he nodded. Maybe what she had said had sunk in. He turned back to the water, looking so tired and worn out.

"Hey, why don't we go inside so you can warm up?" she suggested softly. "You should get some sleep."

He didn't move, keeping his eyes trained on the crashing waves.

"Tem. You're going to work through this. It's going to be tough, but it'll get better. Some days will be good, some bad. But you will get through it."

"Hey, Doc., I thought you were a surgeon. When did you become a shrink in your spare time?"

He glanced at her, a slight smile creasing his lips. For the first time, she thought she saw a dim light in his eyes.

He made a joke, she thought. Wasn't that a sign of improvement? She tried to make a playful dig in response.

"I'm not. I'm just going on instinct," she teased. "Don't you know? We Japanese doctors grow up with an overdeveloped sense of guilt."

He half-chuckled in reply. "Something we Catholics know nothing about. I guess we're two of a kind." Starting to rise from the deck, he said, "You're right. It's getting cold and I probably should get some rest."

"That's good. If not, I was going to start telling you how the waves made me think of dogs."

"Would those be retrievers or rats?" His face broke into a big grin. The sight of it made her heart leap. It was one of the most beautiful sights she had ever seen.

Laughing, she punched his arm. "Oh! So you were listening that day."

"How could I miss it. A crazy lady going on and on about clouds and dogs. I thought I had been misdiagnosed and put in the psycho ward instead of intensive care."

"Get inside," she commanded, refusing to rise to the bait, "and go to bed."

He stopped at the door and turned to her. "Will you stay?" For a second, his lost look seemed to return.

"I have to be back at the hospital in the morning and am on call for the rest of the day. You have no idea how bad Christmas Eve can be for surgeons. But I promise that I'll stay as long as I can. Maybe, while you sleep, I'll see about straightening this place up."

He chuckled again. "You cook. You clean. You perform exploratory surgery. Is there anything you can't do?" Then, he grasped both her arms in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. Again, she saw the turmoil. Finally, he said simply, "Doc . . . Nancy . . ."

Fearful of what she might do next, she forced herself to order him to bed.

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker watched the scene on the deck from his observation post. He did not think Peck had consciously planned it -- the younger man was in no shape for rational thought -- but the listening devices could not pick up conversations on the deck. They had captured what went on in the house before Peck raced out, but now there was only silence.

Decker hoped Peck had not blown it.

Secretly, Decker liked the Asian doctor. Not that he wasn't pissed at her for hiding that she was in contact with Smith. Even now, Decker figured that she probably still knew how to find the A-Team, but he didn't pressure her.

Still, he couldn't help liking her. The woman was a tough cookie and Decker had seen that there was more going on between her and Peck even when the man was in the hospital. They were good for each other and Decker hoped she might be able to stop Peck from going back on the run.

The irony of the situation amused him. He had told Peck to take the pardon by suggesting that the lieutenant could break the agreement. Now he hoped the young man would ignore that advice. It was just that he wanted Peck to have a chance at something more than the life he had always known. Hell, if anyone deserved some happiness, it was Peck.

Chiding himself for being an incurable romantic, Decker picked up his binoculars and looked back at the house. To his dismay, he saw the doctor walking through the living room with Peck nowhere to be seen. The "tough cookie" was crying.

Decker didn't know much about depression, but he knew that people seesawed back and forth in their behavior. Probably the momentary glimmer on the deck had been replaced by that somber visage that Peck had displayed ever since he had arrived at the beach house. Whatever he had said and done in that state had reduced the doctor to tears.

"Damn it kid. Don't screw this up."

_____________________________________________________________________

When Face woke up, he knew he was alone. Looking at the clock on the right of the bedstand, he saw that it was 0900. If he remembered correctly, he had come inside between 1400 and 1500, so he must have slept through the night.

He wondered to himself if he would ever stop thinking in military time. After all, he was a civilian now.

The thought depressed him. He had been a soldier (okay, sort of a soldier) all his life. He did not know if he could change. He had always dreamed of freedom, but he never imagined it without the team. When he thought about the kids he was going to have, he always imagined "Grandpa Hannibal," "Uncle BA" and "Uncle Murdock" being around. Face did not think he could accept this life without the rest the others.

But the team obviously did not want him. Not even tonight, Christmas Eve. This would be his first Christmas in twenty years without the team. Hannibal had probably spent the last three days preparing turkey or goose for Christmas dinner and was the lord of the kitchen. Face pictured Murdock running around like a child. Knowing that Murdock started buying Christmas presents in August, Face figured there probably was a present with his name on it under the tree.

No, probably not, he told himself. Face was no longer part of the team. They had cut him off completely. Face had tried calling BA's van, but got a recorded message saying the number had been changed. Then he had tried calling Amy, but she refused to speak with him.

Nancy had tried to explain Hannibal's reasons, but Face didn't buy them. The colonel wanted Face to make his own decision, but Hannibal did not realize how much Face needed the colonel's advice. Hannibal was the closest thing Face had to a father. The team was his family. How could your family just cut you off?

The answer finally dawned on him. Why hadn't he figured it out sooner? After all, wasn't it the story of his entire life? Face was an orphan; he had no family. He had been part of a team, but even though he thought of it as his family, there was no reason for the others to think of it the same way. Face realized that he had wanted a family more than anything else in his life and had fooled himself into accepting Hannibal, BA and Murdock as a poor substitute. This realization pierced his illusions. He had no family and, most likely, never would.

He rolled over, sinking his left hand into the pillow next to him -- and jumped at the sharp pain. 

"What the hell!" he said aloud. Pulling his hand back, he saw the thorn that had stuck him and the single yellow rose, one of the last of the year, resting on the pillow.

He wondered at the meaning of Nancy's -- Dr. Tanaka's offering. Picking it up carefully, he pulled it to his chest and held it. Just a symbol of something else that he could never have.

It didn't matter. She didn't understand. She thought she did, but then she refused to let him explain. He swallowed hard as he recalled how he had wanted to tell her everything, but he realized it was better that he never told her. What had made him think she might understand? Yes, he thought, it was better that she never know the truth. It was better that he hid behind some jokes and fake smiles. He was a con artist after all and a con artist was never supposed to reveal his true self to anyone.

It was better that he was alone.

The pain of it all was unbearable, so he tried to shut it out and ignore it. If he couldn't feel pain, he would feel better, right? So what if it meant he could feel nothing else.

He looked across the room where the blond apparition stood, a trickle of blood running down from the hole in her forehead. She was calling to him, motioning him to follow her.

He got out of the bed and followed.

_____________________________________________________________________

From his vantage point, the soldier could see the blond man walk out of the house through the glass doors. The private was tired of standing on the beach in the cold. The people who lived in the seaside colony were obviously suspicious and gave him dirty looks. Somehow, when he decided to become a military policeman, he had never expected that he would spending Christmas on babysitting duty for a member of the A-Team.

The soldier whispered into his microphone. "Seahawk, this is Pelican One. The fox has left the cage." He had to admit the code names sounded absurd. The subject of their surveillance was more like a kitten than a fox. Ever since he left Los Angeles, the blond man had barely left the house. When he did, it was usually to sit on the deck or wander aimlessly down the beach.

The soldier watched as the blond man moved down the stairs to the beach. He was wearing only the trousers he had been wearing the day before. No shirt. No shoes. The soldier's first thought should have been that the blond man must be freezing in the cold, but this was not the first time that the target had been underdressed. To the soldier, it seemed that the blond man was impervious to the cold.

"Roger Pelican One," Decker's voice came over his earpiece. "Keep an eye on the fox. Seahawk out." The soldier checked his counterpart, Pelican Two, down the beach. The two of them had drawn the short sticks and they both knew it. Even in the distance, he could see Pelican Two shrug.

His attention momentarily drawn away from his assignment by his annoyance at his predicament, the soldier did not see the blond man move. Seeing the sudden start from Pelican Two, the soldier turned back to where the blond man had been. The fox was gone. Swinging his head around, he thought he saw something moving in the water. Shit! he thought. The water temperature was probably somewhere in the fifties. He saw that the blond man was swimming as hard as he could, trying to get beyond the waves. Was the guy trying to kill himself?

"Damn! Pelican One to Seahawk. The fox is in the water."

The soldier could hear the shock in the voice on the other end. "What?!? Get him the fuck out of there!!!"

Cursing his luck, the soldier nevertheless obeyed the order. Pulling off his shoes, he raced for the water, seeing that Pelican Two was doing the same.

The shock of the first wave nearly froze him. It was worse than he could imagine. Sputtering, the soldier tried to see over the waves, finally making out the blond head in the distance. The soldier began to swim, trying to ignore the cold that was sapping the energy from his limbs.

_____________________________________________________________________

Amy watched as Hannibal finished examining the police reports. BA and Murdock were trying unsuccessfully to look over the colonel's shoulder. Finally, Hannibal looked up and passed the report to the other men, who quickly reviewed the documents together.

"Looks like they covered their tracks pretty good," Hannibal commented. "So, Amy, the police are pretty convinced this is your everyday, run-of-the-mill accident?"

She nodded. "They have no reason to suspect anything else."

"Yeah," Hannibal replied, pulling a cigar from his pocket. "But we do. Right, Captain?"

Murdock nodded and Amy wondered what he must be thinking. He had told them all about the familiar-sounding mystery man that Lattimore had called and they had spent hours trying to prod the captain's memory. No, it had not been Stockwell. Didn't they think he would have recognized Stockwell's voice right off? He was crazy, not an idiot. The interrogation had continued. No, it was not Chao. No, it was not Kyle . . . or Decker . . . or Lynch or any one of their myriad of known enemies. Finally, tears of frustration streaming down his face, Murdock had demanded they stop. Amy knew that he had done his best. He would never have done anything less if it might have something to do with Face.

She knew that was another source of frustration for Murdock. When she and the pilot were alone, he had confessed how much he missed Face. Murdock had gone on and on about how Face would miss Christmas with the team for the first time in more than twenty years. Though Murdock kept talking about how lonely Face must be, Amy could tell that Murdock was just as lonely.

"So what's the plan now, Colonel?" Murdock asked.

Hannibal took a deep drag on the cigar. "It's time to find Ybarra. Amy, are you sure he's at the place your source identified?"

She nodded again before asking, "But why, Hannibal? We know that Lattimore only mentioned Ybarra because he was told to. It's probably a set-up."

Hannibal stood up. "That may be the case. But if we're going to find out who Murdock's mysterious caller was, Ybarra's the only lead."

The colonel headed to the door. Amy, Murdock and BA followed.

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker charged into the house and screamed in frustration at the solder. "HOW COULD YOU LET HIM GET AWAY FROM YOU?!?"

Even hours after Peck had nearly drowned right under the eye of two of his men, Decker was still in a fury.

"Sir, we had no idea he would go into the water. He's never gone swimming before."

Decker turned on the young soldier and roared. "Private, you were ordered to keep an eye on the target! You were ordered to be prepared for any contingency! Look out there! It's miles of water! Didn't it ever occur to you that someone might decide to go in!"

The solder did not respond. He looked sheepishly at the floor. Surprising even himself, Decker calmed himself and put an arm on the kid's shoulder. He had a fleeting hope that some superior officer in the Gulf would do the same to Decker's own son.

"Look. What's done is done. At least you and Pelican Two got him out of the water. Listen, Peck's not going anywhere for a while, so why don't the two of you head back to base and get some rest."

Decker could see the astonished look on the young soldier's face. To be honest, Decker was nearly as astonished himself. If this had happened few months earlier, the colonel would probably have demanded the private's head on a platter. Ruefully, Decker noted that a lot had changed in that time.

After getting an update on Peck's condition from the doctor who had rushed over from Port Hueneme, Decker went to check on the lieutenant. He had finally regained consciousness and the doctor had concluded that Peck probably would suffer no permanent damage from his little escapade that morning.

Entering the room, Decker saw Peck lying in the bed under the large pile of blankets. From the doorway, Decker clapped his hands slowly: a mocking applause that seemed appropriate to the situation.

"Well, Lieutenant. Excellent performance. It seems like you are perfectly suited for a future in drama," he said. Decker hoped Peck was not missing any of the sarcasm in the comments.

Obviously not. Peck just glared at the older man in silence. After a while, the Peck blinked and rolled over so he was facing the wall on the far side of the room.

"Decker, why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Why, Lieutenant? So you can wallow in self-pity? Try to drown yourself again?"

Face didn't respond, but Decker was only getting started.

"What the hell is wrong with you, kid? You have a chance for the first time in your life, but, instead, you're letting it all go to hell. Why?"

"It's none of your business." Peck's voice seemed flat.

"God damn it, Peck. It is my business. Two of my men nearly drowned trying to pull you out of the ocean. I've spent a large part of my adult life chasing after you. And now that something good has finally come of it, I don't want to see that opportunity wasted. So tell me why you let Dr. Tanaka leave and why you tried to off yourself."

The figure on the bed only shrugged.

Furious, Decker walked around to the other side of the bed. Kneeling down, he put his face right next to Peck's. Decker's arms shot out to restrain the lieutenant when he tried to roll over to his other side.

"I'm not letting you get away from this, Peck. I want some answers and I'm not leaving until I get them."

Even though the lieutenant's eyes showed exhaustion and a growing anger, Decker could see that the other man was measuring him. Finally, Peck sighed.

"I don't know when I became your project Decker. I never wanted any of this."

"Damn it, kid. I'm trying to help."

"I don't want your help! Don't you get it! This is my life!" the younger man's rage broke through. He tried to pull himself out of the bed, but weak as he was, he couldn't get break Decker's grip. Finally tiring of the struggle, Peck fell weakly against the pillow and started to cry softly.

"Why couldn't you have just let me die . . ."

"Because you saved those people in that restaurant. Because you risked your life for them. And now, because I don't think you were ever guilty of any crime. How's that for a start?"

The man in the bed continued to cry.

"Damn it, Lieutenant. Don't you have any idea how many people are looking out for you? Smith and Baracus are just the start."

"They left me," Peck sobbed.

"They wanted you to have time to recover. Hell, I know there's no way that they'll let that condition get in the way. Smith's gonna get through to you. Right now, I'm sure he's keeping tabs on you through the doctor. And there's another one. Can't you tell that she loves you?"

Peck stopped crying, sobering almost immediately at the mention of the doctor. Flatly, he stated, "She doesn't want me. None of them want me. Especially now." Face tried to force himself up again.

"Peck, you are the most stubborn S.O.B. I've ever met," Decker said forcing the lieutenant back into the bed. "Why not now? Because you're a hero? What is it that makes you feel so undeserving of anything good? Why the fuck are you punishing yourself? Tell me, goddamn it."

Decker noticed that Peck had stopped struggling to get up and was watching the colonel. The anger and mistrust in the younger man's blue eyes slowly gave way to something else -- resignation. Finally, he sighed and spoke. "If I tell you, will you let go of me?"

Decker released his hold on Peck's arms and stood up. He found a chair in the corner, took a seat and began to listen.

"How much do you know about the Vietnamese POW camps, Colonel?"

And he started to explain.

Decker listened to Peck's tale. Much of it jibed with what he had picked up from the lieutenant's nightmare. But the stories of the torture, each one worse than the next, still made his skin crawl. When Peck described the girl, Decker remembered how the man in the throes of his nightmare kept crying about killing someone. Recalling Peck's age at the time made the details ever harder for Decker to absorb. How could an eighteen-year-old kid live with the decision Peck had been forced to make?

But one thing nagged at him. Peck had had almost twenty years to come to terms with that decision. Why would it make him suicidal now?

"Son, you're just feeling guilty. A lot of soldiers felt guilty about things that happened in Vietnam. Maybe because you've been on the run so long, you've never had a chance to come to terms with it . . ."

He was not prepared for the response. "THIS IS NOT ABOUT NAM!" Peck raged. He slammed his hand down on the bed. "Don't you understand! This is not about a war." His voice dropped to a normal volume, but it quivered. "This is about the restaurant. About the girl in the restaurant."

Decker had carefully read the reports of the shooting. The only "girl" he could think of was the teenager that Peck had saved from the gunmen.

"I don't understand, Lieutenant. Jennifer Samuels is safe and probably celebrating Christmas Eve with her parents and brother as we speak."

"Not her," moaned Peck. "Allison."

Allison? Decker thought. Allison Chandler. The hostess who had been caught in the crossfire. It suddenly dawned on Decker that Peck was blaming himself for her death.

"That was not your fault, Lieutenant. You did what you had to do and saved a lot of lives. You're not responsible for what those goons did."

"What about what I did?" Peck's voice was very quiet. He did not look at Decker.

"You made the decision and shot the two gunmen. It's not your fault that you couldn't get her out of the way."

Peck's head lifted and his red-rimmed eyes rose until they met Decker's. "That's not it," Face said softly. "I didn't just fail to get her out of the way . . . 

"I shot her . . . 

"My gun. I fired. I missed. And she's dead. Because of me." With each phrase, he thumped his braced wrist against his chest for emphasis.

There was silence as Decker began to understand. The girl was killed in the crossfire, but not by the robbers. Decker had seen the secret ballistics report, but had never made the connection. Of course, he realized. Peck was the one with the .357, not the robbers. Why hadn't anyone ever caught that detail? Peck had known all along and had struggled with that knowledge since the day of the shooting. Combined with his earlier memories, the girl's death had been eating away at Peck's sanity. Decker closed his eyes as he tried to comprehend the guilt with which the other man had been trying to cope and listened as Peck spoke again.

"After the war, I swore to Hannibal that I would never kill unless I had to. But I also promised myself that I would never let a woman die. I broke both those promises."

Decker put his hands to his head as he felt the anguish of the younger man. The colonel knew that Peck would not see reason right now; even though there was nothing he could have done to save the woman, he still needed to express his guilt. Opening his eyes, Decker tried to do his best to help.

"So because you broke those promises, you thought you deserved to die?"

The lieutenant answered, almost embarrassed, "Yes. She kept telling me that I should die. That all my friends had deserted me."

"Lieutenant. Are you telling me that you see Allison Chandler?"

Decker saw the other man nod his head in reply, the tears starting to flow again.

"Son," Decker said. "She's not really here. You know that. It's a figment of your imagination. You're feeling guilty, so you see her. But you need understand that what happened in that restaurant was an accident," Decker said softly. "I know you didn't mean to kill her. Everyone will understand that."

Peck started to speak, but Decker stopped him.

"I also know that none of that matters to you. You feel guilty and nothing that anybody says will change that."

Peck nodded, the tears running down his cheeks, as Decker continued.

"But I also know that, with time, you will come to terms with what you did. Telling me rather than keeping it bottled up inside will make you feel better. Maybe not right this second, but in a little while."

Peck was no longer nodding, but Decker could see the pensive expression on the lieutenant's face. Maybe it was starting to sink in. It also gave Decker an idea.

"Lieutenant, you need some sleep. I'm going to go into the other room and take care of a few things. I promise that things will seem a little better tomorrow. Give it time. Just do me one thing. Promise me that you won't try to hurt yourself tonight?"

The tear-filled, blue eyes stared up at him and Peck swallowed hard before answering. "I promise."

Decker stood up and started to leave the room. Near the door, he turned back to look at the exhausted young man. "One more thing, Lieutenant. Merry Christmas."

****

End Part 4


	5. Default Chapter Title

**__**

Scars, Part 5

It had not been a very good Christmas for Hannibal. The team had spent the day in the van eyeing their target. They had been staking out Raul Ybarra's club since the day before Christmas -- five days ago -- and the man had never left. The place was like a fortress and, so far, they had been unsuccessful in getting enough information about the place. Disguised as a delivery man, Murdock had only gotten in long enough to spot the arsenal in the basement and the twenty armed men that Ybarra seemed to have with him at all times. Someone had tipped off Ybarra. No question about that.

Tonight, for the first time, Hannibal had a glimmer of hope. Ybarra was hosting his private holiday party at the club and the colonel and BA had joined the catering staff. Murdock was in the van ready to provide back-up. Now they only needed Amy to get to Ybarra, who was esconced in the back room.

He chuckled slightly when he saw that she was flirting with one of the "kids," as BA had put it, from Lattimore's law firm. Amy was good at getting on the inside. Not as good as Face, but being a woman had its distinct advantages.

The thought of Face made him hope that the young man was okay. Hannibal's doubts about his decision to leave Face alone had alleviated slightly after the last report from the doctor. The night before they had started the stakeout, Dr. Tanaka had reported that Face was depressed, but that she was hopeful things would improve. Hannibal had said he could understand that Face was depressed without the team around, but the doctor explained that Face was trying to come to terms with what had happened in the restaurant. Knowing his lieutenant's overdeveloped sense of guilt, Hannibal understood that too. Since he had not heard anything since two days before Christmas, Hannibal figured things must be improving.

Reflecting back on his conversation with the doctor, Hannibal grinned when he thought about how she had slipped up by saying that "Tem" had made some jokes. He realized that there was probably more going on between the two young people than a doctor-patient relationship. He admitted that he had his own hopes for that possibility.

Hannibal liked the doctor. Ever since she had laughed at "Mr. Lee" -- a character that Hannibal always suspected was over the top -- he knew she was smart and capable. There was no question she was attractive, though not in the vapid, "model"-way of the women that Face usually chased. Hannibal just hoped Face would be brave enough to risk a relationship with a real woman. Face's taste in women was one thing Hannibal had never understood. Well, he thought, maybe that would finally change.

Snapping out of his thoughts, and cursing himself for momentarily letting his mind wander, Hannibal surveyed the room. Hannibal suddenly was glad he did not have a cigar in his mouth. He would have lost it when his jaw dropped at the moves Amy was making on the dance floor. He noticed he was not the only gawker.

The tight skirt and blouse she was wearing left little to the imagination and the way she was rubbing against and groping the young man bordered on obscene. Hannibal could see that Amy's partner was enjoying the attention, or at least his hard-on. Hannibal watched as the young man started to slip his hands under Amy's skirt.

Amy immediately leaped away from him and connected a roundhouse right to his jaw. I taught her that, Hannibal thought proudly, as the "kid" slumped to the floor. A security guard was on her in a second and was leading her to the exit, when another man moved to intervene. The man whispered something to the security guard, who then released Amy's arm. The new man said something to Amy and led her to the back room.

Seeing the sergeant coming over from the far side of the room, Hannibal motioned for BA to get ready by the door. They were just in time, because almost simultaneously, a shot rang out from the back.

The door opened and Ybarra came forward with Amy's gun next to his head. Amy whispered something to Ybarra as the security guards in the main room begin drawing their weapons. The guards quickly dropped them at Ybara's order. BA gathered a proverbial arsenal of automatics, tossed an Uzi to Hannibal, and they, Amy and Ybarra slipped out the front door into the waiting van.

Hannibal loved it when a plan came together.

_____________________________________________________________________

Face felt awkward in the crowded ballroom. He had never had difficulty in these situations before, but then he had always attended these type of events in character. This was the first time he had ever had to attend one of these formal affairs as Lieutenant Templeton Peck, former member of the A-Team. And he had certainly never attended one of these things as a "Freedom Hero." He found that the more he shook hands and made his introductions, the more alone he felt. Trying to find something positive in the situation, he figured that at least he was no longer required to wear the wrist brace. That made shaking hands easier.

Decker had urged Face to cancel the appearance, but Face could find no way to get out of it. The stupid talent agency had arranged for the award and, even though he had no right accepting it, here he was. He tried to remember what had possessed him to sign with the talent agent in the first place. He remembered the media frenzy when he got out of the hospital and how he just wanted to be left alone. He had figured that, by making some appearances, he would satisfy the press into leaving him alone the rest of the time. In some respects, the plan had worked. There had been no reporters hanging around the beach house. But right now, Face wished he were anywhere else but the ballroom of this hotel.

Decker had insisted on coming along as well. Moral support, the colonel called it. The irony was not lost on Face.

Actually, he had to admit that Decker had been a godsend over the past five days. Every day since Face had revealed what had happened in the restaurant, they had talked for hours. The talks allowed Face to release a lot of the pain and emotion that he had kept bottled up since the shooting. There were still many subjects that Face would not discuss, but even knowing that Decker was interested in learning more about Face had helped.

Talking also had been good for the colonel. It had helped Decker deal with the fact that his son was stationed half-way around the world near the front lines of a battle that was closely approaching. Decker had been shocked when he learned how much Face knew about the boy and had been angered by the explanation that it was information the team gathered so they could understand their enemies. Decker had only relaxed when Face swore that Hannibal would never use the boy to get to his father. So they talked and Decker expressed his fear about the impending battle and what might happen to his son's unit. The colonel had also talked about all the things he wanted to tell his son, but had never found the time or the words to express.

In a way, Face realized that he had become a surrogate for Decker's absent son. Decker, in turn, had played Hannibal's part. A poor imitation, perhaps, but Hannibal was not around, was he?

Face sighed as finished shaking hands with Mayor Bradley. Looking around, Face saw that Nancy -- Dr. Tanaka, he reminded himself -- had just entered the room. He quickly appraised, and approved, the elegant, long black dress she wore. He also noted that she did not seem to have a date. Cut it out, Templeton, he thought to himself. You're her patient. She already explained that. He wondered why that thought caused so much pain. After all, she wasn't his type anyway.

He saw her exchange a few words with Decker. After a moment, she made a beeline for Face's position, but he wasn't fast enough to get away. Another thing he could not escape.

"We need to talk," she said impatiently as she took his arm and pulled him into a corner of the room. She obviously was even less concerned about appearances than he.

"Would you tell me what the hell you were trying to do?" she hissed. It dawned on him that Decker must have told her about his near-drowning.

"I decided it would be nice to take a swim," he answered glibly, adding his best con man smile. He turned his head and flashed the smile to anyone close enough to see the expression on her face.

"For god sakes, Tem," she pleaded. "Why? After everything that happened the day before, I thought you were getting better. Why did you pull a stunt like this?"

"I guess I didn't like waking up next to an empty pillow and a yellow rose." He instantly regretted his words. But why? He hurt, so why shouldn't she?

She looked down at the floor before responding. "I thought I explained. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know that, don't you?"

He paused and leaned against the wall with a sigh. "I know. I'm sorry." He reached out to take her hand in his before continuing. "It's just . . . that hurt so damn much. And on top of everything else . . . I just didn't want to be alone anymore." He could feel the tears beginning to form in his eyes, but tried to force them back. From the look of concern on her face, he could tell that he was failing miserably.

"Is it getting any better, Tem?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. The colonel and I are becoming roommates, almost buddies. Don't laugh, but it's helping. I mean, some days are good and some days are bad. I know that its not going to miraculously go away overnight, but it's getting better."

She leaned over and pecked his cheek in a sisterly way. "I'm glad, Tem. I know you still have to come to terms with a lot, but I think you've turned a corner. You deserve to be happy. I'm sure you'll find someone out there who is right for you." She pulled her hand away and walked back into the crowd.

Watching her leave, he had only one thought in his mind. "I already have," he murmered.

He never noticed the pair of eyes watching the whole exchange from the other side of the room.

_____________________________________________________________________

"S-stop, p-please," Ybarra sputtered as BA pulled him out of the water.

"Tell us what we want to know, Raul," Hannibal instructed.

"Okay, okay. Just stop . . . please . . ."

"Tell us about Il Trovatore."

"Hey. All I did was tell the guys to go in there and find the coke. I knew Lattimore was gonna plant it on one of the kitchen staff."

"Why Carson and Ray?"

"Because they were morons. They'd do anything for a quick buck."

"What were there instructions?"

"To go in and find the guy with the dope. I swear. They weren't supposed to kill anyone."

"Why don't I believe you, Raul?" Hannibal blew some smoke in the drug dealer's face. "There's more going on here. BA?"

BA started to push Ybarra's head back into the water.

"Wait! Please! I'll tell you. I told them to go in and get the dope. They must have killed someone accidentally and panicked when the staff escaped. I don't know why, exactly. I told you. They were morons."

"Raul. None of this makes sense. What was the point?"

"You were! We were supposed to get you to think there was something going on at the restaurant. That was the plan."

Hannibal pulled his gun and pointed it at Ybarra's head. His icy blue eyes bore down on the man by the bathtub.

"I'm only going to ask you this once and I'd better like the answer . . . What did this have to do with the A-Team?"

"The guy told me that they wanted you to investigate the restaurant. They were going to hit you when you were all there. He said they wanted to take you together."

"If you wanted all of us, why did you tell Lattimore to work on Face's pardon?"

"The guy told me to. Said it would smoke you out if that Peck guy was out in the open. Then he would take down the three targets."

"Three targets? Did he mention me, BA and Face by name?"

"No. You and BA. And a guy named Murdock. But he never said he wanted anyone named Face. And he didn't mention a girl. He said Hannibal, Baracus and Murdock. Anyone else with you was expendable."

"Who said that, Raul?" Hannibal shoved the gun against the man's head so he could feel the cold steel.

"I don't know for sure. NO! Don't shoot me! I just don't think he told me his real name. I mean, no one's really named Abel."

"Oh my god," said Murdock from the back of the bathroom.

Hannibal and BA turned to see the shocked expression on the pilot's face.

"Oh my god," Murdock repeated. "How'd I miss it? Abel 3, Hannibal. From Langley. That was the voice on the other end of the phone."

_____________________________________________________________________

Decker was hoping the event would end soon. He had been to his share of formal military events, but this was ridiculous even by those standards. A slew of actors, politicos and businessmen all trying to seem far more important than they really were. It was pitiful really.

He had spent most of the rubber-chicken dinner watching Peck as he sat at the front table. Although the lieutenant looked like a movie star in his formal attire, Decker could see that Peck was wishing he was anywhere but the Presidential Ballroom of the Loews Hotel in Santa Monica. Peck probably did not even realize that he had spent most of the meal watching Dr. Tanaka from across the room.

Decker had seen the brief exchange between the two of them and could figure out what had happened. He knew Peck was hurting. Hell, Decker had found it painful to watch from a distance once he realized she was saying goodbye.

Thankfully, this thing would be over soon. The president of the Association for Freedom and Justice had already honored most of the minor award recipients and was beginning to introduce Peck. He knew the lieutenant had planned on saying only a few words before they could escape. Unfortunately, Decker had already heard them a dozen times. In fact, Decker had practically written the speech.

Ignoring the proceedings, Decker thought back to the past few days and his conversations with the lieutenant:

"You're scared about your son, aren't you Colonel?" Peck had asked the question as the two men had watched CNN's latest report about how the Iraqis were testing Scud missiles in advance of the threatened U.S. bombing of Baghdad.

Decker had not known how to respond. The answer was yes. He was petrified, but he couldn't admit it to Peck.

"He'll be okay" was all Decker had said.

Peck had studied Decker with those dark blue eyes. "You're trying to convince yourself of that, but you've got to consider the possibility that something could happen. Have you discussed it with him?"

"It's none of your business, Peck."

"Maybe not. But I'm thinking about your kid out there on the front lines. Don't you remember what it was like when you first got shipped out?"

"Not really, Lieutenant. It was a long time ago and it was just what I was expected to do after the academy."

"Was that during Korea?"

"No. I graduated after Korea."

"So you didn't see combat until Nam?"

Decker had felt himself blush, but he had answered honestly. "Not really. The truth is, I didn't really see combat in Nam. I mainly gave orders from the rear echelon."

Peck had laughed derisively. "An REMF. So you really have no clue what your kid's going through. He's probably scared shitless and thinking about how his soldier daddy expects him to be the brave and honorable soldier who never gets his hands dirty."

The lieutenant's gaze turned icy and something in it terrified the colonel as Peck had continued to speak, "War is dirty, Colonel. You need to let your kid understand that, because if he discovers it on his own, he's never gonna trust you."

A cold realization had flooded over Decker then. As he had looked at Peck, the colonel had pictured a newly commissioned officer stepping off the transport to Vietnam. Younger than Decker's son, perhaps, but not by too many years. "Was that what happened to you, Peck? You discovered that war was hell all on your own?"

"Yeah, I learned that on my own. But at least I didn't know someone who could have warned me, but didn't. Until I met Hannibal, nobody gave a damn about preparing us for what was coming."

"That was, what, four months into your tour? I mean when you joined Smith's unit."

Peck had taken a deep breath. "Yeah, 'bout that." The younger man had closed his eyes at that moment, as if he were trying to shut out some bad images.

Decker nonetheless pursued the issue. "What happened, Peck, before you met Hannibal?"

The lieutenant had turned pale, but had just shook his head. "Trust me, Decker. You don't want to know. Just do yourself and your son a favor and send him a letter. Let him know that you're scared and that, whatever happens, you'll support him."

Decker had wanted to force the issue to find out what other horrors the other man was hiding. But seeing that Peck was as white as a sheet and breathing hard, Decker had let it go. An hour later, he had sat down and composed a short letter to his son.

He tuned back to the speaker just in time to hear, "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my privilege to give this award to the 'Freedom Hero of the Year,' Lieutenant Templeton Peck." Decker joined the ovation as Peck started to cross the dais to accept a piece of crystal mounted on a base.

"Thank you," Peck said into the microphone, sounding a bit more nervous than Decker expected. Clearing his throat, the lieutenant started his speech.

"I've never received an award from anyone other than the army before, so I'm not really sure how it's supposed to feel. I also don't really know what being a "Freedom Hero," let alone the "Freedom Hero of the Year," is supposed to feel like. Frankly, I'm not sure what makes a "Freedom Hero," but I'm also pretty sure that I don't qualify. I think of heroes as the people who do things that make the world better -- people who work hard to improve things every day. All I did was get caught in a situation beyond my control and I shot some people. I don't think that makes me a hero. Especially not the hero of the year.

Out the corner of his eye, Decker saw a waiter lean over and whisper something to Dr. Tanaka. A look of worry creased her face as she grabbed her bag and started to follow the waiter to the exit.

"A lot of people have talked about the shootout at the restaurant. Obviously, a lot of people talked about me. They also talked about the other hostages. But I haven't heard anyone talk about the people who did not survive the shooting, because some of them were heroes.

"There was a woman who died in the restaurant named Allison Chandler. The Los Angeles Courier reported that she was a hostess and a student. But what they did not tell you was that she wanted to be a teacher. She wanted to teach disabled students like the ones at the center where she volunteered. Allison Chandler was a hero. Far more than me. She didn't . . ."

A scream from the back of the ballroom cut him off. Decker jumped just in time to see Dr. Tanaka being pulled out of the room. A volley of automatic gunfire into the air caused most of the party goers to dive under the tables. Decker did not duck. He already had his sidearm out and was heading for the door.

Peck responded even faster. He dropped the crystal award, which promptly shattered, and leaped off the dais. Even though Decker's table was in the middle of the room, the two men reached the back door together.

Sneaking a peek around the door into the lobby, Decker was forced back by another round of bullets. He could see the gunmen moving to the exit by the beach.

"Colonel," Peck said, "I need a gun. Do you have a spare?"

From his waistband, Decker handed the lieutenant his back-up. He looked the younger man in the eye before they braved the lobby. "Too bad. It was a good speech," Decker cracked.

They rolled into the lobby in the hope that any shots would sail over them, but they were met with silence. Behind them, Decker could hear the other guests starting to recover from the shock of what had happened and knew that once the crowd left the ballroom it would become impossible to find the doctor. He motioned for Peck to follow and they both raced past a few stunned hotel guests in the atrium to the beach exit.

Once outside, they followed the only path down towards the water, Peck in the lead. Just as they hit the end of the path, another round of gunfire sent them diving for the sand.

"You okay," Decker asked.

"Yes." The light off the ocean reflected in Peck's eyes, making them glow. For an instant, those eyes made Decker thing of a big cat on the prowl. The scared kid was gone. For the first time since he had seen Peck in the hospital, Decker saw the other man as the soldier he was. For the first time, Decker realized just how deadly Peck could be.

"Do you have any idea who they are, Lieutenant?"

"No, but if they hurt her, I'm gonna kill them," he threatened.

Decker had no doubt about that. Staying low, he followed Peck as they moved quickly across the sand in the direction of the shooter.

They ran about a quarter mile down the beach before he saw the doctor in the parking lot. She stood under a streetlamp. So did the man holding the handgun to her head. Decker vaguely wondered what had happened to the automatic rifle.

He got his answer almost immediately. Even before he heard the sound of the gun, he knew he had been shot. The force of the bullet struck his right arm, spinning him and sending his gun flying. He tried to find the gun, but in the darkness on that stretch of beach, it was useless. Besides, he had always only been comfortable firing with his right hand. With that hand hanging limp at his side, the gun would have been equally useless.

"Don't move, Lieutenant," commanded the middle-aged man in the parking lot. Decker could not place the man's accent. It seemed to combine an east coast authoritarianism with a flat Midwestern inflection. In his dark suit and with his receding hair line, the man looked like a bureaucrat. From the way he spoke, he obviously knew Peck.

"I said don't move, Lieutenant. Not unless you want the lady to die."

Peck trained his gun on the man as he spoke. "Don't do this, Stockwell." 

_____________________________________________________________________

"Don't do this, Stockwell," Face repeated. "Let her go. It's me you're after."

Hearing him, Nancy tried to speak -- to tell Tem not to make a deal -- but the man put his hand around her mouth to stop her.

"Not quite true," the man by her side corrected. He sounded completely at ease, a sharp contrast to the strain that she had heard in Tem's voice. "I want Smith, Baracus and Murdock. You are quite expendable. You always have been. But I need you to get them. And I need the girl to get you. So the answer to your proposition is no. I won't let the girl go."

"I could shoot you right now," Face snarled. Nancy could tell he was trying to slowly move closer. The gun pointed directly at her and the man holding her, Stockwell, never wavered.

"Perhaps, Lieutenant. But perhaps you will miss and kill the lovely lady. We all know how you would feel about that."

"Damn you, Stockwell." Now that Tem was closer, there was enough light for her to see him start to squeeze the trigger.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Lieutenant. Abel 3 has a rifle trained on you at this very minute. If he hits you, you won't be able to control your aim and you will kill the good doctor. I'm sure she would make a wonderful 'hero,' but do you really want that? I wouldn't move any closer, either."

Face froze on the sand. She could see Tem's eyes now. They were filled with rage and hatred, but she also saw the indecision. She shut her eyes, hoping that if it all ended, she would not have to see him die. It felt like an eternity.

Her eyes popped open when he spoke again. "I can't." From the apologetic tone, she knew he was speaking to her. "Please Stockwell," he begged. "I won't fight you if you let her go." Face lowered the gun to the sand and raised his hands.

From the darkness, she saw another man approach Tem. He was still wearing the waiter's uniform he had on when he told her she had an urgent call from the hospital. He also still had the machine gun.

She flinched when he pounded the rifle butt into Tem's stomach, doubling him over. The second blow ripped Tem's head back and lifted him off the ground as the rifle connected with his jaw like an uppercut. Tem landed awkwardly on his left knee, his right leg splayed out to the side. The man with the rifle looked up at Stockwell for his order.

"Go ahead."

Nancy started to struggle, but the strong grip held her back. She saw the man raise the rifle above his head and bring the rifle butt down on Tem's exposed leg. Even over the ocean sounds, she could hear the bone snap as the gun struck just above the ankle. Tem fell, trying to grasp his broken leg and protect it from any more abuse.

"Bring them to the van," Stockwell ordered. He pulled her roughly to the door of the van behind them and suddenly shoved a foul-smelling cloth in her face. She tried to hold her breath to fight off the fumes, but she couldn't. As the world began to swim, she sunk into the darkness.

_____________________________________________________________________

"Come on, Hannibal, we've got to get to that hotel."

"I know Murdock," Hannibal said for the fourth time.

"But Face could be in trouble."

Hannibal swung around from his seat to look at the pilot. "I know that, Captain," he snapped. "There is nothing we can do until we get through this traffic. So just sit there and shut up."

Murdock slammed himself back against the seat and crossed his arms. He knew Hannibal was worried and probably regretted what he had just said. But still, knowing that Stockwell was somehow involved, they had to warn Face of the danger. To be stuck in traffc on Pico Blvd., knowing Face was only a few miles away, nearly made Murdock scream in frustration. 

"Maybe we can find out where the accident is," Hannibal said as he reached for the radio dial.

It didn't take long for them to hear the news report. A shooting and suspected kidnapping during the Association for Freedom and Justice annual dinner. Details were sketchy, but many of Hollywood's leading lights had been shaken. One thing was known: Lieutenant Templeton Peck, who was being honored, had raced out of the building and had not been seen since.

Murdock did not hear the last statement -- "the nature of Lieutenant Peck's involvement in the incident is not known" -- because the pilot was out of the van and running down the street.

_____________________________________________________________________

Trying to block out the pain of his broken leg, Face attempted to get his bearings in the dim light of the room. He knew they were in an unfinished basement, but where? He had been barely conscious when the van had stopped. The twenty-minute ride from the parking lot was torture on his broken leg, but he forced himself to stay awake. Anything he saw might be a clue to where they were being taken.

Face also felt cold. They had taken his clothes, leaving him clad only his boxers. Stockwell probably figured that Face had lockpicks and other tricks stashed in his clothes, but the ignominy of sitting there, nearly naked, rankled.

A stirring to his right caused him to look in the direction. Thank god, he thought. Stockwell must not have used much chloroform to knock Nancy out, because she was coming around. He pulled himself across the floor to where she had been unceremoniously dumped and waited until her eyes opened and focused.

"Tem? Wh-what happened? Where are we?"

In his calmest voice, he tried to answer. "We've been captured. As for where we are, I'm not positive, but I think we're somewhere near LAX. I heard planes when they moved us from the van."

He saw her begin to panic, and knew that she was recalling the events in the ballroom and parking lot. Using his arms, he tried to keep her still. Without any leverage from his right leg, it was difficult, but she finally calmed down.

"Do you know why this is happening, Tem?"

A second voice came out of the darkness. "I'd like an answer to that too?"

Face let go of Nancy and turned to Decker. "Colonel. I didn't realize you were awake. How's your arm?"

"Hurts like hell, Peck, but I'll live. So don't try to change the subject. Answer the question."

Face sighed, but he knew there was no way to avoid answering. "The guy who caught us is named General Stockwell. He's a government agent. Not CIA, but something else. Top secret. The other guy is one of his goons, Abel 3. Stockwell's the one who captured the team after the 'execution.' We were promised pardons if we worked for him, but he lied. After two years of suicide missions, we escaped. I guess Stockwell wasn't very happy about that."

"Tem," Nancy asked softly, "what did he mean that you were expendable?"

"All of Stockwell's people are expendable."

"No," she pressed. "He said he wants Hannibal, BA and Murdock, but you are expendable. What did that mean?"

Face shook his head. "I'm not sure. Stockwell never liked me, probably less than the other members of the team. I didn't take well to being his prisoner and tried to get away. Maybe that's it."

He saw them both staring as if they did not fully believe him. Frustrated, he said, "Honest. I don't know what Stockwell meant. All I know is he figures he can get the team through me. I had no idea he was after me. I'm . . . I'm just sorry you've gotten caught up in all this. Nancy. I'm so sorry. I might have been able to take him out, but I was afraid. I was a coward."

He felt Nancy's hand touch his. "It's okay, Tem," she said softly. "You heard what he said. He would have had the other man kill you."

He blinked, trying to hold in the tears he felt forming. "That's not why. I just didn't want to repeat what had happened. I kept seeing the woman in the restaurant and I didn't want to shoot her . . . you," he corrected.

She patted his hand. "I know. I understand."

Composing himself, Face watched as Decker moved around the room and examined the stairs leading to a door above them. Turning, he could see the colonel shivering from the cold. Stockwell had taken the man's uniform, too. At least the bastard had the decency to let Nancy keep her dress. Stifling the image that briefly popped into his head, Face tried to focus on their current situation. "So what's it look like, Colonel?"

"You're probably a better expert at getting out of these situations than me, Lieutenant. Why don't you come here and take a look?"

"That's a little difficult right now. I'm not exactly mobile." Decker probably had not seen the beating or had forgotten about Face's leg.

"Oh my god!" exclaimed Nancy. "Your leg! How could I forget? Tem, let me look at that." She slid over and, like a good doctor, began to examine the break. He winced at her touch, but tried not to scream as the pain shot up his leg.

"We have to find something to splint this, Tem. Colonel, could you see if there's anything here?"

"I think that's unlikely," Face responded. "Stockwell probably cleaned this place out pretty well. If he took our clothes, he's not taking any chances."

Trying to block out the pain in his leg, Face watched Decker inspect the room. After a few minutes, Decker came to the same conclusion Face had reached. Holding his useless arm by his side, Decker and came over to where Nancy was working on Face's leg. The older man kneeled, put his good hand on Face's shoulder and said Face would have to "tough it out." Through a veil of sweat, Face gritted his teeth and nodded in agreement.

After what seemed an eternity, Nancy announced, "That's the best I'm going to be able to do now."

Face looked down at the leg he had studiously avoided examining while she worked. There was some black cloth tied around his calf in an attempt to hold the bone in place and give some stability if he needed it. It was a stopgap measure, but it might give him a few seconds of movement. It then dawned on him where the cloth had come from.

"Umm. Nancy. You ripped your dress."

"Yeah," she said absentmindedly.

"That's a shame. I wanted to compliment you on it."

The absurdity of the statement was not lost on him. They were trapped, injured and would soon be dead and all he could think about was her torn dress. Yet it seemed important. Before he could say anything more, a light flooded into the room. The upstairs door had opened.

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy watched the middle-aged man walk slowly down the stairs. Behind him followed the man who had struck Tem with the rifle. Abel 3 is what Tem had called him. She was glad to see that he carried no weapon now.

Tem was the first to speak and she was amazed at the collected way he talked. "Stockwell. I should have known. So I guess the pardon was all your idea?"

"No, Lieutenant. Actually, your pardon is quite real. I just helped move it along and ensured that certain conditions were attached. And, also, that certain, shall we say, 'facts' about your little shootout never got released to the public."

"Look." Tem spoke in the same cool voice as if Stockwell's words had barely registered. "Do whatever you want to me, but let them go. They have nothing to do with this. The colonel needs to get to a hospital."

It was to no avail.

"How magnanimous of you, Lieutenant. But I don't think so. They're going to stay here until I have Smith and the rest of your team. So why don't you and I go upstairs and call your colonel."

"He can't tell you that. Smith cut off all contact with him," Decker called from the back of the room.

"Colonel," Stockwell responded in his haughty voice. "I don't recall saying you could speak. Since I did not and you are not really of much importance, I would recommend that you not say another word. You might regret it."

"You swine," Decker spat.

Stockwell jerked his head at Abel 3 who drew out a handgun. He pointed it at Decker and, without pause, fired. Nancy knew it struck its mark because the colonel lurched backwards and collapsed. In horror, she saw that Decker was not moving.

Baring his teeth in fury, Tem leaped at Stockwell. Even with the injured leg, Tem moved fast, but not fast enough. Abel 3 swept Tem's good leg from under him. As the weight fell on the broken leg, Tem fell heavily to the floor.

"I'm gonna kill you, Stockwell," Tem panted. 

The other man just laughed. "Oh I don't think so, Lieutenant. You have a problem with killing. Even when it's necessary." Stockwell stared down arrogantly and flashed a smug smile. "Oh, don't look so surprised. You don't think the army was the only one that bugged your little beach hideaway. I know all about your little heart-to-heart talks with the colonel. You can't even kill when circumstances require it, so I hardly think you're going to kill me."

Standing over Tem, Stockwell slowly adjusted his tie. Narrowing his eyes, the general looked down at where Tem was still gasping as he tried to recover from the shock to his leg.

"You're a coward, Lieutenant. It really is a shame. You could have been so much more than you are. You had so much promise, but you let yourself become weak when you started caring about people."

Stockwell leaned over so his head was right above Tem's. "I don't make that mistake. You are, and always have been, expendable. I should have let you rot in the jungle like Santana. He was another worthless pawn."

"I will kill you, Stockwell," Tem repeated evenly as he finally regained his breath. "I swear. If it's the last thing I do."

Stockwell leaned back and laughed again. "Oh, I don't think so, Lieutenant. I know the last thing you're going to do and it definitely does not involve my death . . . As I was saying, you're just a pawn. And you know chess, Lieutenant. You sacrifice pawns to clear room for the more important pieces. And when I have the rest of the team, I'll have the only pieces that matter."

"You're insane, Stockwell. There's no way Hannibal will ever come to work for you. No matter what you do to me." Using his arms, Tem had raised himself his chest off the floor and was glaring at the other man.

"Oh, you're only right it one respect. It won't matter what I do to you. On the rest, you're wrong. Smith and Baracus will have no choice but to return to work for me. I can have the firing squad lined up in a matter of hours. And as for insanity, I believe that is Captain Murdock's forte."

Nancy could not contain herself any further. "How dare you do this to us, you son of a bitch."

He laughed again and looked at her. "You know Lieutenant. You do surprise me sometimes. The good doctor here is quite different from your typical choice in women. Did you get tired of blondes with silicon after you got out of the hospital? Or did you just want something Asian to remind you of the war?"

Tem tried to get at Stockwell again, but Abel 3 caught Tem before he could reach the arrogant general. Tem was still struggling and screaming that he would kill Stockwell as they dragged Tem up the stairs. Watching him go, Nancy silently prayed that God would let him live.

In the dim light, she made her way over to where Decker was lying. She did not really expect him to be alive, but she found a pulse. Examining his wound, she saw that the bullet had struck his chest. In the dim light, she could not judge the severity of the injury but, from his labored breathing, she figured the bullet probably had pierced the man's lung. She knew the bullet also had struck close to the heart and major arteries. Without much hope, she started tearing her dress some more and used the cloth to try to staunch the bleeding.

From above, she heard the sound of Tem yelling at the top of his lungs. He was screaming at Stockwell, calling him every name in the book, but she knew he was trying to cover the pain he was experiencing. Each yell ripped at her core. She knew Tem was suffering and recanted her earlier prayer. He had already suffered so much; she couldn't bear to hear him suffer any more. Please, God. Be merciful. She tried to drown out his screams by concentrating on the wounded colonel.

She did not know how much time had passed before she realized that the screams had stopped. A few minutes later, the door opened again and Abel 3 carried Tem's limp body down the stairs. A few steps from the bottom, the agent dropped Tem to the basement floor. His injured leg buckled under him and she thought she heard the sound of cloth tearing. Stockwell watched approvingly from the top of the steps.

Unable to keep her emotions in check, she raced to Tem's side. He was barely conscious and the bruises and cuts on his body horrified her. He had been struck repeatedly in the stomach, chest and back, opening new wounds that she knew would add to the scars he already possessed.

Cradling Tem protectively in her arms, she hissed at Stockwell, "You monster. Why? Why did you do this to him?"

"The lieutenant refused to comply with my request, doctor. I told him to contact Colonel Smith and he refused."

"Damn you, Stockwell. He couldn't. Didn't you hear what Colonel Decker said? Hannibal cut off contact with Tem."

"Now, perhaps, I believe there may be some truth to that. But I'll ask the lieutenant again in a few hours. Maybe with a little more persuasion . . ."

As Stockwell turned to exit, she spoke. She knew Tem couldn't survive another beating like this. No one could. "Wait," she called. "I know how to find Hannibal."

She felt Tem twitch as he heard her speak. "N-no . . . D-don't," he said, barely managing a whisper.

Stockwell turned back, his interest obviously piqued. "You know how to reach Colonel Smith?"

She nodded. "I've been giving him updates on Tem's condition. He made me promise not to tell." She looked down at Tem's face, seeing that he was astonished and hurt that she had kept that from him. "I promised Hannibal," she said apologetically.

"Perhaps, Lieutenant, I was too quick to judge your lady. She may have some use after all. Come on doctor. Let's go make a call."

Carefully, she lowered Tem's head to the ground. She could hear him softly telling her not to do it, but she sadly smiled and began to climb the stairs.

_____________________________________________________________________

BA had been circling the van through Santa Monica and Venice for the past few hours looking for clues, anything that might help them find Face. He knew it was futile. So much time had elapsed that his li'l bro could be anywhere. When the phone rang, he immediately feared the worst.

"Lou's Delivery," Hannibal answered, followed instantly by an anxious, "Doc., where are you? What's going on?"

BA saw Hannibal pale as the color drained from his face. Oh god, BA thought, Face must be dead. He glanced at Murdock and knew the pilot shared that thought.

Hannibal finally spoke. "Where, Stockwell?" Hannibal listened for a second before he spoke again. "We're downtown. We just finished playing with your friend Ybarra. We can be there in forty-five minutes. But hear this. If you've hurt Face, I will hunt you down and kill you." Despite the surge of relief BA felt as he heard those last words, the tone of Hannibal's voice terrified the sergeant. He had not heard the colonel sound like that since Vietnam. The cold tone in his voice sounded like death itself. There was no threat in that tone. Just a cold, deadly assuredness.

Hannibal hung up the phone. "BA, get us to Blanco Park," he instructed through clenched teeth.

"Sure, Hannibal. But why did ya say we need forty-five minutes? We'll be there in ten."

"I know BA. I want to give us time to set up a trap. This will probably be the only chance we have to save Face. I don't think Stockwell's going to give us a second chance."

_____________________________________________________________________

The team quickly arrived at the park and located the baseball diamond that Stockwell had described in the phone call. Finding a nearby tree, Murdock climbed it and waited for showtime. The high-powered rifle by his side seemed odd. It was usually Face's job to play sniper.

"This is Triple-A to Woodpecker. Just a test. How's it look." Amy's voice came over Murdock's earphone. Amy was acting as lookout in the van parked on the east side of the baseball field. Murdock's tree was well-positioned. Through the scope on the rifle, he could see the van, the rest of the well-lit parking lot and the baseball field.

"Woodpecker to Triple-A. That's a roger. Got a sensational view. You should see how great these trees look in the dark."

"Cut it out you two," said Hannibal's voice over the earphone. Hannibal was standing by the pitcher's mound. "It's nearly time for Stockwell to show."

As if on cue, a white van pulled into the lot. From her position, Amy said that she could only see Stockwell in the driver's side. To Murdock, that meant that Stockwell's thugs had probably jumped out earlier and were trying to circle the field. Unfortunately, in the dark, the pilot had little chance of spotting them.

Through the scope, Murdock watched the side door of the van open. Stockwell climbed out, pulling a motionless figure out of the van. A flood of cold swept over Murdock as he recognized the blond hair reflected in the light. Stockwell dragged Face to the sidewalk and faced Hannibal. Peering through the scope, Murdock could see that Face was barely clothed and was bleeding from wounds on his bare chest. His arms were tied tightly to his sides. Focusing on his target, Murdock steadied the gun and kept it trained on Stockwell's head.

Through his scope, Murdock could see Stockwell's lips move. Through his earpiece, he could only hear one side of the conversation. Hannibal's side.

"You bastard. What have you done to him . . . " Hannibal's words were followed by a momentary silence as Murdock watched Stockwell smugly moved his lips.

Hannibal's voice came again. "Miscommunication, my ass . . . I told you, Stockwell, if you hurt him, I would kill you. You know that, unlike some of us, I keep my word . . ." A longer silence followed.

"Why should we come to work for you? You never intended to carry out your bargain . . ."

So that was what this was all about, Murdock thought. Stockwell was trying to recoup his losses and force the team under his thumb again. Hannibal's next words chilled him.

"Murdock? He's not here. He had to work tonight."

Murdock cringed. There was no way Stockwell would accept that excuse. Not if Face was in danger. Even Stockwell had to know Murdock would abandon everything for his buddy. The pilot could see the detestable spook laughing at Hannibal's lie. Why had Hannibal lied so badly? It was as if he wanted Stockwell to know Murdock was watching, but that wasn't part of the plan.

"I may not be as predictable as you think, Stockwell."

"Go 1, Woodpecker," came Amy's command through the earphone. Although Murdock could not see it while his eyes were peering through the scope, Hannibal must have just lit his cigar -- the signal for Murdock to fire the gun. "Go 1" meant a warning, not a kill. Murdock pulled the trigger, hoping that no one was watching his position as he fired.

It was too much to hope. Even though Stockwell never flinched at the bullet that nearly creased his brow, Murdock saw the man move his mouth. Suddenly, the pilot heard a loud noise and felt himself shaking. No, he was not the one shaking; the tree was shaking. Then it was falling. Losing his balance, Murdock tried to jump clear. He landed hard as the tree crashed down beside him. He felt his head strike something and everything went black.

Unconscious as he was, Murdock did not hear the "pfft" of the dart guns as Hannibal and BA were taken out. Nor was Murdock aware when the three men were roughly hauled into the white van and driven off.

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy was hovering over Decker in the basement. She had managed to slow down, but not stop, the bleeding and knew the colonel's time was running out. The best she could do now was make the man comfortable.

When the door opened, she felt a stir of hope. She knew that Stockwell had gone to confront Hannibal and she knew that Tem had faith in his leader. Maybe the A-Team had figured some way to get them out of here.

That hope was dashed when Abel 3 carried the unconscious, white-haired man down the stairs. Shortly thereafter, the flunky returned dragging BA and then Murdock. She quickly checked the men, determining that Hannibal and BA had been drugged and Murdock seemed to be concussed. Only the latter was awake and he was acting crazy -- babbling about exploding trees as he angrily punched a wall. She hoped Tem was in better condition as she waited for their captors to bring him down.

When Abel 3 did not return, the fear began to overtake her. Where was Tem? Why hadn't Abel 3 brought him back? As the time passed, her realization grew. Tem was dead. He was not here, but the team was. Stockwell had made it clear that he only needed Tem to catch the team. Having succeeded, Stockwell probably had killed the lieutenant. There was no other explanation for why he wasn't here.

The gunshot from upstairs merely confirmed it.

Sitting in the darkened room with a dying man, a crazy man and two unconscious men, Nancy began to cry.

_____________________________________________________________________

Stockwell held the still-smoking gun and stared at the motionless lieutenant. The general had won. He had the A-Team, or at least the relevant pieces. The lieutenant was of no further use. Stockwell started to reach for the ropes that still held the lieutenant's arms to his side, but stopped. Maybe that was not completely accurate. Maybe the lieutenant's corpse could be of use after all.

****

End Part 5


	6. Default Chapter Title

**__**

Scars, Part 6

Hannibal began to come around. His head still was spinning, but he knew he was awake. Trying to sit up, he started to fall back until he felt someone put a hand to the small of his back. He looked up to see Dr. Tanaka, tears streaming down her face.

Brushing aside her tears, he whispered, "Hey, Doc., it's not the end of the world."

She began to sob and he took her in his arms. He quickly surveyed the room. Murdock was angrily slamming his fist against a wall and talking to himself, BA was still unconscious by Hannibal's side and Decker was lying motionless on the other side of the room.

"He's dead, Hannibal. They killed him."

"Decker?" He started to rise to go look at the other colonel

"No, Hannibal. They killed Tem," she managed through her tears. 

He froze. No. They couldn't have come all this way to fail. Not Face.

He dropped back to his knees and pulled the doctor directly into his icy stare, trying everything to keep composed. "Did you see him? Did you see them kill Face?"

"No. B-but they never brought him b-back . . . I heard a shot . . . And Stockwell had already said he didn't need Tem once he had the team . . . He said Tem was expendable."

From Murdock's direction, he heard confirmation of part of what she had said. "I heard a shot from upstairs, too." Spinning in the captain's direction, Hannibal could see that Murdock was deadly serious. Punching the wall was another sign that the captain was coming close to giving in to his rage. "Colonel," Murdock repeated, "there was a shot."

Hearing Murdock's words, Hannibal silently admitted that it was probably true. Face probably was dead. As the realization sunk in, Hannibal wanted to surrender to the grief he felt welling up inside him. He could feel it taking hold and fought against it. But he couldn't succumb. Not now. Even if he could not save Face, Hannibal was still responsible for everyone in the room and he had to keep himself and the rest of them together. Taking a deep breath, Hannibal looked the doctor directly in the eye. He had to give her some hope, even if it turned out to be false. "Now listen to me. We have an understanding on this team. Until we see a body, no one is dead. So Face isn't dead. You got that? You have to believe Face is alive." Hannibal silently urged himself to believe his words.

Her tears started to slow and she fought to regain her composure. Hannibal held her in his arms until she stopped trembling. This wasn't her fight, he thought. Damn Stockwell for putting her in the middle of this.

When she had recovered enough, she led Hannibal to Decker. Looking over his pursuer, Hannibal could feel nothing but pity for the other man. No man deserved to die like this. Hannibal prayed that he would be able to save the other colonel. Even if Hannibal had already failed to save his own son.

"Hang on, Rod. We'll get you out of this." Hannibal meant every word he said.

"Smith," the other man replied weakly.

"Yeah, Rod. I'm here."

"Where's Peck?"

Hannibal did not want to reveal the truth. Instead, he simply answered, "Face isn't here."

"Smith?"

"Yeah, Rod."

"He's a good kid. He blames himself for shooting a hostage, b-but he's a good kid . . .You raised him well . . . I tried to look out for him for you . ."

Decker's voice trailed off as Hannibal contemplated the words. Face blamed himself. Face had killed a what? Oh no. It quickly dawned on Hannibal what he had missed. How could he have been so blind? Hannibal felt a sudden surge of shame flood through him for not realizing what Face had been going through. How could Hannibal have left the kid all alone? And now, Hannibal realized, he might never have a chance . . .

No. He stopped himself. He couldn't focus on that right now. He would have to come to terms with that later -- if there was a later. Now he had to concern himself with Stockwell.

"Do you best to save him, doctor," he instructed, motioning at the injured Decker.

She nodded but then a puzzled a look came over her face. "Did you hear something?" she asked.

Hannibal listened for a moment and heard a slight buzzing coming from somewhere close by. Realizing what it was, he fiddled with his white jacket until the small electronic device fell loose from his collar. The earpiece. It had somehow fallen out of his ear, but the cord had gotten tangled in his jacket. Stockwell had probably never seen it in his haste to get the team into the basement. Hannibal never planned on luck, but he admitted that it sometimes helped. He shoved the earpiece in his ear.

"Amy, is that you?"

"Yes, Hannibal. I followed the van as you instructed. I'm just down the street."

"Where are we?"

"On a cul-de-sac in Westchester. 845 Campion Drive. Near the airport. I watched Stockwell and his man carry you inside. There only seems to be one man with him."

"Did you see Face?"

"Yeah. They took him in last. Isn't he there with you?" The worry in her voice was plain.

"Calm down, kid. We don't know anything right now. Did you do what I instructed."

As she confirmed it, a noise from behind him made him turn. Good, he thought, BA was waking up. And the sergeant was going to be pissed. He reached into his coat for a cigar, but there were none in his pocket. Obviously, Stockwell had done some type of search. Hannibal mentally wished the general would choke on the smoke from the good Havanas.

Suddenly over his ear, he heard Amy's excited voice. "Hannibal, there's movement."

"What kind?"

"Someone's going out to the van. It's the Abel-guy. He's carrying something." Her voice nearly choked. "Oh no . . . Hannibal . . . it's Face . . . and he's not moving at all."

Hannibal tried to mask the terror he felt. He knew that no one else in the room could hear Amy, and he did not want to panic the others. Murdock was already coming close to losing it and he needed the doctor to keep calm if they were going to get Decker out alive. Carefully selecting his words, Hannibal quietly spoke.

"What is Abel 3 doing?"

"He just put Face in the van and Stockwell just came outside. Stockwell is climbing in."

Hannibal smiled slightly. Stockwell must believe that he had the team locked up tight if he was going to leave them here.

"Are they pulling out?"

"Yes, Hannibal. They're pulling out and driving down the block."

"Amy. As soon as they turn, get your butt in here and bring the phone. We're in the basement. I'm not sure where the entrance is, but . . ."

Dr. Tanaka cut him off. "It's through the kitchen, the door between the hallway and the refrigerator."

"Amy. In the kitchen, there is a door between a hallway and the refrigerator. That's where we are."

In full command, Hannibal instructed BA to go to the top of the steps in case Amy needed some help with the door. Turning to the doctor, he asked if Decker could be moved upstairs. She shook her head.

"Okay, Doc. Amy's bringing a phone. I'm going to leave it with you. Call 911 and tell them to get some paramedics to the basement of 845 Campion Drive. Keep him alive until they arrive."

"What about you?"

"We're going after Face. Stockwell has him and we won't leave him behind. No matter what." Even if it they only recovered Face's body, the team owed the kid at least that much.

"How do you know where they're taking him?"

He smiled with a grim determination. "Just a little trick up my sleeve."

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy followed the paramedics out of the house. The team had left only fifteen minutes earlier, probably only five to ten minutes after Stockwell had left, but if felt like forever before the ambulance arrived. She had helped them do their best to stabilize the colonel on the scene and then helped them load Decker on a gurney. They were now rushing him to Centinela Hospital. She still didn't know if he would make it, but she had done her best. With exhaustion and despair quickly replacing her adrenaline, she knew she would have to pass the colonel off to another doctor. Besides, her mind was completely preoccupied with the team. She hoped beyond hope that they would find Tem alive. And hoped, more realistically, that they would at least recover his body.

_____________________________________________________________________

Stockwell stopped the white van at the end of the old pier. At four in the morning in December, the place was understandably empty.

He opened the back door of the van where the lieutenant was lying motionless. Blood still streaked his back and chest.

"Cut the rope and get him out of there," he instructed Abel 3.

Freeing the rope, the subordinate grabbed Face by the hair and began to drag him from the van. But just as his body reached the back bumper, the lieutenant rolled over, bringing his left leg around and digging it deep into a surprised Abel 3's stomach.

The large agent doubled over and fell back against the railing of the pier. Face leaped after him, punching as fast and furious as possible while the element of surprise was in his favor. He knew that would last only for a few seconds. In his condition, there was little chance he could overpower Abel 3, let alone Abel 3 and Stockwell both. Even on Face's best days, the chances of that were unlikely.

His advantage was even shorter than he had hoped. Stockwell's beating had sapped most of the strength from Face's bruised and bloody body. He could see Abel 3 recovering from the surprise, so Face instinctively ducked to the right, putting his weight on the broken leg. As the leg buckled and he fell to the ground, he decided to pray that the gods of luck were favoring him.

Face reached out from the ground and wrapped his arms around Abel 3's legs. With the last bits of rapidly diminishing strength, Face forced himself to his knees, lifting the other man's legs and flipping him over the railing. Face barely heard the splash as he collapsed against the railing in exhaustion.

"I must compliment you, Lieutenant," came Stockwell's smug voice from behind him. That was quite unforseen. You know what? I don't know if Abel 3 can swim. Oh well, he was . . ."

"Expendable," Face hissed, cutting Stockwell off.

"Yes. Just as you are. Now that I have the rest of the A-Team. Turn around."

Face slowly turned his body so he was crouched with his back leaning against the railing and all his weight on his good left leg. Stockwell was standing over Face aiming a 9mm at his head. Face was too tired to do anything but roll his head back so that he was staring nearly straight up at the stars. He decided he would rather die looking at the heavens than at the barrel of a gun.

"Go ahead, Stockwell. You've won. Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?"

The general walked towards him, a crooked smile pursing his lips. "Oh, I'm not going to shoot you, Lieutenant. If I really wanted to do that, I would have killed you in the house when I put on a little show for your friends' edification."

Seeing the puzzled look on the lieutenant's face, Stockwell answered the unasked question. "Oh, that's right. You don't know about that. Your team thinks you're already dead. A nicely timed gun shot from the kitchen if you really want to know. Right now, Captan Murdock is probably catatonic and Colonel Smith probably isn't thinking very straight. After all, you always were Smith's weak link. It helps to know one's enemy. It makes it easier to keep them off-balance, which is, of course, to my advantage.

"But I'm not going to shoot you, Lieutenant. No. You're going to take another swim. Oh, don't look so surprised. I know all about that. You see, Lieutenant, in your guilt over killing the good doctor and poor, heroic Colonel Decker, you decided to take a plunge off this pier. Don't doubt that I can fake the autopsy reports. You killed them."

Face barely heard the last part of Stockwell's plan. Nancy and Decker were dead. He knew the soldier had been dying from his gunshot wounds, but there was no reason to kill the doctor. He felt a hot burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, as the rage began to grow. "You twisted son of a bitch. Why couldn't you just let them go?"

"You know I couldn't do that, Lieutenant. It's a shame -- the woman at least. She was very attractive. I still can't picture you with her, but I think maybe you did love her.

"Well, you'll be with her soon enough, Lieutenant. Even if you survive the fall, I give you about fifty seconds with that leg before you drown. And if by some miracle you live, it won't make a difference. You'll be facing murder charges which I can guarantee will stick. So it's your choice. Death now or the gas chamber in San Quentin."

Stockwell laughed and motioned with the gun. "Now get up."

Face tried to push himself up, but couldn't. The anger and despair were like a weight pinning him down. It wasn't that he was afraid of death. Face had long resigned himself to the fact that he probably would die young and violently. But he never pictured this. He never thought he would die alone, with the team nowhere to be seen. They had promised him after all.

The thought fled as Stockwell reached forward, grabbed Face's arm and jerked him forward. Face fell onto his hands and knees.

Stockwell laughed. "I am so tempted to shoot you right now. To shoot you while you are like that. On your hands and knees would be so appropriate."

"Do it, you bastard," Face urged through clenched teeth, hoping he could prod Stockwell into ending things quickly.

Face felt a hand grab his blond hair and wrench his head backward. The force pulled him off his knees and he found himself up against the pier railing with Stockwell's gun next to his head. Stockwell continued pushing Face and he felt his shoulders falling back over the railing. Knowing the fall was inevitable and he would be dead once he hit the water, Face stopped struggling and prayed for absolution.

His prayers were interrupted by the loud horn of the van.

The van. His mind reeled. The van meant the team. If the van was here, the team was here. Stockwell didn't have them. And if he didn't have the team, then maybe . . . Nancy . . .

The sudden hope gave him new energy. He brought his arm up and tried to force the gun away from his head. He felt the bullet whiz by his head, even before the sound nearly deafened him. Trying to distract the other man, Face hissed, "Your plan's falling apart." He felt Stockwell slip back as Face planted a satisfying left knee in the other man's stomach. A flash of silver made him realize that the force of the blow had sent Stockwell's gun flying onto the wooden pier.

As Stockwell's grip on him released, Face came down on his right leg. An excruciating bolt of pain ran the entire length of his body and he fell. But even sprawled face down on the ground, Face knew he had to reach the loose gun before Stockwell did.

They both scrambled for the weapon on the ground, but somehow, despite the broken leg, Face got his hands on it first. Rolling over on his back, he pointed the gun at the general.

Face had never wanted to shoot someone so much in his entire life.

_____________________________________________________________________

"Face, drop the gun," Hannibal commanded from the pier. The trace on Stockwell's van had gotten the team to the pier just in time, but Hannibal's joy at seeing Face alive had nearly been dashed when he saw how close the lieutenant was to plunging into the cold waters. BA had hit the van's horn, distracting Stockwell enough to allow Face to escape falling over the railing and to get Stockwell's gun. But now it was up to Hannibal to save the kid from making the biggest mistake of his life.

"I'm gonna kill him, Hannibal," Face answered. Hannibal had no doubt that Face was serious.

"You don't have to, son."

Face was sitting awkwardly with the gun in hand and had slid back against the pier railing. He was holding the gun in his right hand, while steadying himself with his left. Hannibal could tell that a broken leg was preventing the lieutenant from standing. The colonel also could see that Face was near collapse, but still agitated from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Hannibal needed to get that gun out of Face's hand before the kid did something stupid.

"Hannibal, did he kill them? Nancy and Decker?"

"No, Face. They were both alive when we left the house."

Hannibal could see that the information had an effect on Face, but the younger man still pointed the gun at Stockwell. Seeing that Face was trying to pull himself to a standing position along the railing, Hannibal slowly crept closer.

"I've got to stop him, Hannibal. If I don't, he's gonna keep coming after us. Coming after me. You know that. The only way to end this is here."

"Face. That's not true. Stockwell's going to go to jail. We have evidence. He planned the restaurant shooting. We'll turn the evidence over to the police. They'll take care of it."

Face finally reached a standing position, leaning against the railing with all his weight on the good left leg. His face remained impassive. He never took his eyes of his target.

"That's a lie, Hannibal, and you know it. Don't try to lie to me. You're not as good at it as I am. There's no way Stockwell is going down."

"You may be right, Face," Hannibal conceded. "But damn it, kid. I know you. This is not you. You're not a killer."

"You don't know me anymore, Hannibal. You cut me loose. You left me behind. You don't know what's happened -- what I've done. I'm not the same kid you once knew." Face jabbed the gun in Stockwell's direction. "If he's responsible for that, then he should die."

"That's not true, Lieutenant," Hannibal barked. "Do you remember what you swore? You promised you would never kill anyone unless you had no other choice."

"I promised I would kill him too, Hannibal. And right now I want to keep that promise even more." For the first time since he had arrived, Hannibal could detect that Face's words seemed strained. Good.

"Face," Hannibal said in a softer voice. "I made the same promise. I swore that if you were hurt, I'd kill him. But that was a promise made in anger. It wasn't serious. Not like your other promise."

"That's not true, Hannibal."

"Yes it is. If you do this, you'll regret it, son. Decker told me what you've been going through. You can't deal with what you did in the restaurant when you had no choice. Think about it. If you can't accept that, you won't be able to get over killing someone in cold blood. Even someone like him."

Face blinked fiercely. The hand holding the gun began to tremble.

"Come on, kid. Don't do this. None of us want this. Don't ruin your life for a pig like him."

"Don't come any closer, Hannibal" was the only response. Then Hannibal watched in horror as Face pulled the trigger.

_____________________________________________________________________

The blast from the gun caused Murdock to come to a sudden halt behind the van. Feeling the cold sweat streaming down his face, he could only wonder: What had Face done?

While Hannibal had been trying to talk Face out of shooting, Murdock had been attempting to slip around the white van. If he could just circle around, he had thought, just get on the other side of Face . . . When Murdock heard the shot, he was on the side of the van opposite to where his buddy and Stockwell were standing. Murdock cursed himself. If he'd just been faster. Just like the restaurant. If he'd only been faster. Shaking the icy grip that had momentarily stopped him, Murdock raced towards where he had last seen Face holding the gun.

"NO!" he screamed. "Face . . ."

Murdock wheeled around the side of the van. 

Face was still standing, leaning awkwardly against the rail. The gun was still in his hand. The gun was still trained on Stockwell.

Who was still standing.

Murdock stopped cold. He could see that his best friend was trembling, his eyes wide. Behind those eyes, Murdock knew, a war was waging in Face's mind. The captain knew that reason had briefly won out and prevented Face from killing Stockwell, but how much longer could reason hold on? By the look in Face's eyes, not long.

Hannibal broke the silence, speaking softly in a soothing voice. "Face . . . put down the gun . . . It's okay . . . We're here. See, Murdock's here. BA's here. None of us wants you to do something you will regret."

Murdock saw some the fire in Face's eyes petering out.

"Come on, kid," Hannibal said.

Murdock saw the gun slowly lower and Face close his eyes. He began to slide down the railing, his body finally giving in to exhaustion. Hannibal raced forward, catching Face before he hit the ground. 

"You coward!" The sound of Stockwell's voice jerked Murdock's attention away from Face and Hannibal. The general was standing, taunting Face. "You're weak, Peck. A strong man would have had the guts to do it."

Murdock lost it. His cold sweat was replaced by a roaring inferno and he launched himself at Stockwell. A right fist to the gut sent the other man to the ground. Standing over the prone general, Murdock raged.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH! You've got no clue about being strong! You think strength is moving people around like pieces in a game!" 

He kicked Stockwell in the stomach. And again. Finally Murdock found an outlet for months of anger.

"A weak man would have killed you, Stockwell! Face . . .is . . . far . . . too . . . strong . . ." The pilot punctuated each of his last words with a new kick until strong arms pulled him away.

"Stop it, man! We got him. Don't kill him. This ain't doin' Face no good."

Hearing BA invoke Face's name jarred Murdock out of his fury. Relaxing slightly in BA's arms, Murdock swung around to look to the railing. His best friend was weeping in Hannibal's arms as the colonel held Face in a tight embrace.

Even across the pier, Murdock could hear his best friend's words.

"Hannibal . . .you came back."

"Of course I did, son."

_____________________________________________________________________

BA watched as Hannibal held Face close, rocking slowly from side to side. Seeing Face cry shocked the large man. He tried to remember the last time he had seen Face in tears. Vietnam, maybe. But BA couldn't remember if Face had even cried back then. Face rarely showed real emotions and never anything as painful as tears. He would whine a bit, but that was usually just for show. The Faceman buried his real feelings behind jokes and scams, never revealing his true self. Wasn't that why they had originally called him "Face"?

Damn, Faceman, what kinda hell ya been goin' through?

The sergeant looked over at Murdock, who was finishing putting a gag in Stockwell's mouth. They would leave the general tied up for the local police to find him. Amy had climbed out of the van and would make sure of that. Nonetheless, BA still let his eyes run over the knots. Most of Murdock's attention was on Hannibal and Face, so the sergeant figured it made sense to double check the bonds. They looked secure. Even preoccupied, the crazy man had done a good job.

BA wished there was more they could do to Stockwell. Given the choice, the big man would have liked to drop the general off the pier and let him swim for it. But that wasn't the A-Team's style. Visions of numerous other ways to make Stockwell suffer began to swim through BA's brain.

"BA," Hannibal's voice brought the sergeant's eyes back to the direction of the colonel and lieutenant. "Can you give me a hand with Face. We've got to get him to a hospital to have him checked out."

Before Murdock could even begin to protest, Hannibal put a hand up in Murdock's direction. "Captain. Don't start. Face needs to have his leg fixed and he needs a doctor to make sure Stockwell didn't reinjure his stomach."

BA walked over to the lieutenant and picked him up gingerly. Face emitted a low moan as the movement jarred the injured leg.

"Hold still, l'il brother. I jes need ta move ya to the van." BA looked down into Face's blue eyes as they moved. Behind the pain and exhaustion was a look that BA had never seen directed at him. With a start, he recognized the look as one he had seen Face give only in his most unguarded moments, and then only to Hannibal. A mixture of fear and anguish was part of it. But ultimately, BA knew that the look was one of absolute trust -- the type of faith one would place in a father or older brother. BA also knew that this was the first time, even in a glance, that the Faceman had ever expressed himself this openly to BA.

"BA," Face said weakly.

"Hey, l'il bro. I know. Ya don't have ta say nothin'."

After carrying Face over to the van, and setting him in one of the backseats, BA turned to get into the driver's seat. He was not really surprised when Hannibal jumped in the back, leaving Murdock to the passenger's seat. Even from the front, though, Murdock's eyes never left his buddy.

"You okay, muchacho. We're right here for you."

Not strong enough to talk, Face nodded slightly. Through the mirror on his visor, BA could see Hannibal put his left around Face and cradle him as best as possible from the other backseat. A gloved hand ran through the younger man's hair.

"Kid, we're going to have to take you back to a hospital. Do you understand me?"

Face nodded weakly. His eyelids were slowly drooping and BA could tell the lieutenant was losing his battle with consciousness.

"Face," Hannibal said a little more strongly. Then his voice took on a different tone. Even though BA could tell that Hannibal was trying to use his full command voice, he was unable to fully mask the way his voice kept breaking. "Lieutenant, you need to hear me. We're taking you to the hospital, but we're going to have to leave. Me and BA are still fugitives and what happened earlier is all over the news. You're going to have to spend some time trying to deal with everything that's happened and there's still your pardon to deal with. You still need some time to figure out what you want."

The brittleness in Hannibal's voice was a quality that BA had never heard before. He could tell that the colonel was struggling to finish..

"Face, you need to understand that we're not abandoning you."

BA could see that Face was struggling to answer, but couldn't say anything as Hannibal continued to speak.

"I promise you, Face. We're your family. We will always be here for you. No matter what happens, whatever you decide. We're here for you."

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy was anxiously waiting for an update on Decker's condition when the van arrived at the hospital. Seeing BA carry a semi-conscious Tem through the emergency room doors caused her to shriek with joy. She reached them just as BA was setting Tem carefully on a gurney, trying not to jar the broken leg.

"Thank god you're alive," she said, grabbing his hand.

Hannibal reached the lieutenant's other side and took his other hand. "Face, do you understand what I said in the van? We have to leave before the police arrive so we don't screw up your pardon. Dr. Tanaka will take care of you and will let us know how you're doing."

"Please don't go," Face whispered.

"Face, we have no choice. Don't worry."

With his black-gloved hand, Hannibal reached out and brushed some hair out of Tem's face. Tem closed his eyes, relaxing at the caress. The white-haired man then lifted his head and looked at her with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

"Please take care of him."

She nodded, knowing that Hannibal was trusting her with the most valuable thing in his life.

He patted Face's hand. "Even though I won't be at the hospital, son. You know I'm here for you. We all are. Dr. Tanaka knows how to reach us."

"Nancy," Face corrected weakly.

"What did you say, Face?" Hannibal leaned over to hear better.

"He said Nancy, Hannibal. My name. Not 'Dr. Tanaka'." From the smile on Hannibal's face, she knew that he liked the change.

"Okay, Face. You win. Nancy knows how to reach us."

Hannibal reached across the gurney and grasped her free hand. The look he gave her needed no explanation nor response. With a quick "Come on, guys," he headed for the exit.

BA patted Tem's arms and then followed the leader out the door. Murdock leaned over Tem and whispered, "Hang in there, muchacho. I don't like this any more than you do, but orders are orders." Then he too was gone.

She leaned over Face and studied him. His eyes were glazed and she knew he was losing consciousness.

"Tem? Can you hear me? I'm going to get some help. Okay?"

"Wait." His eyes fluttered open. "I need one thing."

"What?"

"A different doctor."

_____________________________________________________________________

On December 31, 1990, Murdock hung up the phone in the van and gave his report to Hannibal and BA.

"Nancy says Face will be fine. The broken leg is the worst of it, but the break is low enough that he only needs a short cast. The hospital cleaned up his cuts and he's badly bruised, but those will go away with time. He didn't even break any ribs."

"For the Faceman, that's prob'ly some record." BA grinned at his own joke.

Murdock gave a sharp look in the big man's direction before continuing excitedly. "Doc. says he'll be released this afternoon. So Hannibal? When are we heading over to pick him up? I wanna get Faceyman a big stuffed animal and some markers to sign his cast with. I wanna draw a big Woody Woodpecker wishing Face a Happy New Year."

Hannibal sucked in on his cigar and exhaled. "We're not going to pick him up, Murdock."

"Oh come on Hannibal. You saw him. He wants to come back. Hell, he needs to come back. He's a target out there."

"Are you finished with your little speech, Captain?"

Sulking, Murdock sat back and crossed his arms. Hannibal continued.

"I want Face to come back as much as you. But I also want Face to make an intelligent choice about what he wants."

Murdock started to interrupt, but Hannibal's cold glare stopped the captain from speaking. 

"Right now, Face is conflicted. Part of him wants to be here, but another part of him needs to see what the world can offer. You can see he loves Nancy, but he's afraid to admit it because of what it means for the team.

"Let me finish, Captain." Hannibal stopped Murdock from speaking again. "And that's only touching the surface of things. Ever since the shooting, Face has had a lot to deal with and not much time to do it. He's still guilty about what happened and he needs to find a way to come to terms with his actions. So much other stuff has happened since the shooting that he may need more time."

"But, Hannibal, it could take Face years to get over that guilt," Murdock interjected. He knew his best friend and how much the death of the girl must have been weighing on Face's conscience.

"You're right, Murdock. Face may not come to terms with killing an innocent for a long time. But I'm not saying he needs to get everything resolved before he decides if he wants to come back or not. He just needs to figure out how he's going to come to terms with things. He may decide that he needs help he can't get while on the run. Or he may decide he needs us to help him. Either way I'll support his decision. But it needs to be a reasoned one. I don't think that any of us, including you, would want Face to throw away his pardon and regret it later."

"Ya know how the Faceman can whine," added BA.

Murdock felt his anger returning, but he suppressed it. Hannibal was right about Face needing to come to terms with things, but Murdock was still afraid for his best friend. "What if one of our other enemies tries to go after Face?"

Hannibal looked solemnly at the captain. "That's why we're going to be keeping an eye on him."

_____________________________________________________________________

Nancy walked down the hospital corridor. She had just talked with the doctor overseeing Colonel Decker. She was still amazed that he had survived the blood loss and internal damage, but the treating physician said Decker was going to live. He might have significant nerve damage to his arm, but given the events of the past few days, Nancy figured that Decker would accept that. She wanted to give Tem the news before his discharge and hoped they might be able to spend New Year's Eve together.

She knew something was wrong the instant she entered his room. The bed was empty and the clothes the MPs had brought from the beach house were gone.

She turned and nearly ran over a nurse. "Excuse me, but do you know what happened to the patient in here?"

"Oh he left 'bout an hour ago."

Just when I went to check on Decker, she thought.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Sorry, ma'am. He asked the duty nurse to call a cab company. Before she was finished, he had slipped out. He didn't even get his wheelchair ride downstairs."

Before the nurse had finished, Nancy was running for the elevator. Damn you, Templeton Peck. Damn you.

_____________________________________________________________________

Two weeks after he had slipped out of the hospital, Face found himself staring out the window of the beach house. He was still being watched, but the MPs no longer seemed planted on the beach. It was enough of a change that he no longer felt like a prisoner. He had found and removed the listening devices in the house, so at least he could have privacy when he wanted.

Puttering around the room with the cane seemed silly, but he was trying to follow the doctors' instructions. He figured he had a couple more weeks before the cast on his leg came off. What he needed to figure out was where he would be when that happened.

If he did decide to go with the team, he would have to find them. With his cast and the surveillance, he could not exactly go to Mr. Lee's laundry and start dropping hints.

And then there was Nancy. Though he tried to block her out, visions of her kept invading his mind. But, regardless of his decision, he knew it was too dangerous to get involved with her. If he kept the pardon, she would be a target alongside him. If he ran, it would be even worse. Anyone after the team would come gunning for her. 

He regretted what he had said in the emergency room. He should never have given her any hope for the impossible, but he had corrected that by running away. He convinced himself that this was better. A clean break. She would get over him, especially if she was angry at him for disappearing. She probably had hundreds of guys who could take her mind off him. He would just have to force himself forget her too.

He just wished it did not hurt so much.

He looked back out the window at the gray January waves. The new year had begun, but all he wished was that he could go back to October and stop himself from ever walking into that restaurant. Before that, his life had been so simple. Now everything seemed so complicated.

Trapped in his thoughts, he barely heard the doorbell ring.

_____________________________________________________________________

As the door opened, Nancy saw the look of surprise cross his face. She could tell he had not expected her to come after him.

The very thought sent her into a fury and she launched herself at him. Flailing at his chest with the sides of her fists, she sent him stumbling against the wall opposite the door.

"HOW DARE YOU LEAVE ME!!!" she screamed. "AFTER EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED, HOW COULD YOU LEAVE?!? WITHOUT EVEN A WORD, YOU BASTARD!!!"

His lack of response only increased her fury. She continued to hit him, screaming all the while and making no attempt to stop the tears cascading down her face. He made no attempt to defend himself. The flurry of punches finally stopped and, exhausted from her effort, she slumped forward. He caught her, cradling her head against his chest. Her tears continued unabated as she felt his hands caress her head and heard the rapid pounding of his heart in her ear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the anguish evident in his voice.

Wrapping her arms around him, she held him tight. "Please, Tem . . . I need you . . . Please love me."

He held her close for a moment longer, then led her to the bedroom.

____________________

She woke the next morning to an empty bed. Her momentary panic subsided when she heard the sliding glass door in the living open and close. Tem must just be going outside.

She thought of how they had made love the night before. She couldn't think of it in any other terms. Calling it sex seemed too clinical and anything else seemed too crude. They had made love. All the emotions that had built up in the previous months -- the pain, the anger, the anxiety, the loneliness, the terror -- had driven their passion. They had shared those emotions throughout the night, alternating between ecstacy and sorrow, in the end leaving them fully exposed to one another. And when those emotions were finally released and the last barriers between them stripped away, Tem had looked at her through a veil of tears and whispered that he loved her.

Rolling over on the bed, she saw the red rose lying on Tem's pillow. Faintly wondering where he had managed to find such a thing in January, she picked it up and cradled it. For a minute, she breathed in its wonderful perfume before she began to rise. Then she saw the heavy robe that he had left for her by the side of the bed and smiled at his gesture. After all, wasn't that what a gentleman was supposed to do?

Walking into the empty living room, she noticed it was raining outside. He was out there too, on the deck just outside the door, clad only in pajama bottoms. Tem was watching the pounding surf, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was getting soaked. Nancy opened the glass door, pulled the robe more tightly around her to ward off the cold and went to him.

He did not hear her come out, or, at least, he did not acknowledge her. But he flinched slightly when she touched his shoulder and began tracing one of the scars that ran the length of his back.

"It's still not a pretty sight," he said as if from a distance. "You shouldn't be able to love someone with something so ugly."

"Tem," she said softly. "That's not true. They're beautiful."

He snorted, but she ignored him.

"They're beautiful because they are part of you, because they're part of what makes you special. They may be the marks of horrors, but they also prove that you are the strongest man I've ever known. You have taken the worst life can throw at you, but you still have the courage and strength to overcome it."

He shrugged slightly, seemingly uncomfortable with what she was saying.

"So, Doc., what Hallmark card did you pull that off?"

She knew what he was doing, but she tried to suppress the swell of anger that was rising in her chest. Unsuccessfully, she realized.

"Don't you dare," she warned in a low voice. "Don't you try to push me away. Not now. I know what you're trying to do, Templeton Peck, and I won't let you."

He turned and looked at her. Even in the downpour, she could tell the moisture in his eyes was from tears, not rain.

"I have to go," he said.

"I know," she answered slowly. "The team will be here tomorrow at two. I arranged it with Hannibal . . . And Colonel Decker."

"What?" The surprised question escaped him.

"Colonel Decker," she repeated. "I spoke to him at the hospital the other day. He issued an order that your regular guards will be sent back to barracks at twelve-thirty. Somehow, the replacement guards' orders will get misdirected, so you'll have a window until four to get out."

His shock was evident. He leaned back against the glass doors and slid to the ground. His arms rested on his bent knees.

"How long have you known?"

"Since I saw you here the first time." She smiled at the memory of how he had kissed her arm in the kitchen, but then remembered how badly she had hurt him when she struggled to suppress her real feelings.

He looked up at her wide-eyed. "Don't you want me to stay?"

"Are you're testing me?" Nancy replied, kneeling down in front of him. "Of course I want you to stay. I want to be with you more than anything else. But I know you won't be happy because you can't live like this. The army isn't going to let you run your life like you want. And there will always be Stockwells out there who want to use you to get to the rest of the team. But more importantly, the team needs you and you need them. 

She swallowed hard. "And, no matter what, I'll be here for you."

"That's not fair to you," he rejoined before pausing. "You can't wait for me. You have to know, if I go back, I won't be able to see you at all. You'd be in danger from the Stockwells of the world too."

"Nobody other than Stockwell knows me as anything other than your doctor."

"It's not just that . . . I'd be a fugitive again. It's not like I could just drop by. I can't pretend. I'd be living near you, would know where you were, but wouldn't be able to see you. I couldn't take that. And what if I never get pardoned? I can't ask you to give up your life for me. No one has the right to ask that of you."

"Tem," she ran her hand down his forearm. "No one is asking me. That question is already answered. I answered it for myself when I fell in love with you."

He reached out and brushed her wet hair out of her face. With a sad smile, he added, "You're crazy, you know that? There's no way this could work."

"Maybe. But I always thought the A-Team could do the impossible. I guess I'll have to have faith." She moved closer to him, turning sideways so she could sit next to him and lean her head against his chest. His strong arms held her close.

"It's not fair," he said looking out at the waves.

"Yeah, I know."

They sat together silently in the rain and watched the waves crash against the beach. Finally, he spoke again.

"Nancy?" he asked.

"What Tem?"

"Would you tell me the rest of the dog monologue?"

_____________________________________________________________________

Nearly six weeks after the strange events at the Association for Freedom and Justice dinner, the army released the news. Lieutenant Templeton Peck had violated certain unspecified conditions of his pardon and, reluctantly, the army had been forced to revoke the pardon. By that time, the bombing of Iraq had begun, so most people took no notice. Sure there was a bit of letter writing to the Army and the Department of Justice, but the world was far too preoccupied with Scud missiles and smart bombs to concern itself with a Vietnam-era criminal. Even if he had been in the right spot at the right time to kill some gunmen and save some hostages.

Colonel Roderick Decker, recently returned to light duty, wondered at the absurdity of it all as he looked over the still photographs of Peck and Smith taken from the security camera. The A-Team had disrupted a crooked bank operation that was funding illegal arms shipments to the Middle East. The photographs were proof to the military that Peck had violated the conditions and led it to immediately rescind the pardon. Nobody seemed to think about how much the military benefitted from the A-Team's actions. After all, what were a few more weapons that wouldn't find their way into Iraqi hands?

Decker wished he knew how to find Peck so he could thank him. Not only for the weapons, but on a more personal level. Since the colonel had been shot, he had written daily letters to his son and had just begun receiving daily replies. Had he not seen how the lieutenant struggled with his demons and opened himself up to Decker, the colonel did not think he would have ever had the strength to be so honest and open with his own son. Especially when admitting his concern about what his son would soon experience when the U.S. ground forces invaded Iraq. Decker knew he owed the lieutenant.

Decker knew he had been barely able to communicate with Smith in the basement, but he hoped the other colonel understood what Peck needed and what Smith meant to Peck. He looked back at the photograph and saw the shared gleam that both men had in their eyes as they held their AK-47s. Yeah, he thought, Smith probably understood.

Punching his intercom, he spoke to his aide. "Captain, I want you to round up all of the files we have on the Bank of Hanoi robbery and the death of Colonel Morrison. I want to look everything over from the beginning."

_____________________________________________________________________

The van sat parked outside the small house.

"You sure you want to do this, kid?"

Face saw Hannibal's look of concern as he asked the question. The lieutenant reached out and grasped the colonel's hand.

"Yeah, Hannibal. It's something I need to do."

"Hey muchacho," said Murdock. "We can come with you."

"I know that, Murdock. But this is something I need to do alone." Face opened the van door and climbed out of the vehicle.

"Okay kid. We'll be right outside," Hannibal called after him.

Face started limping to the walkway. They had gone to Bad Rock where Maggie Sullivan had removed his cast, but he still felt some pain in the limb when it was cold.

Seeing Hannibal with Maggie had been a revelation. Face had to remember to ask the colonel how he was able to maintain a relationship with a woman even though he was on the FBI's Most Wanted List. A sly smile creased Face's lips. Maybe there was a way after all.

As he stared up the walkway to the house, he suddenly had some doubts. He had no idea what was going to happen, what the woman inside would do. But he had come this far and he was not going to give up now.

After all, isn't that what he had learned from this ordeal? He was a survivor. He had taken the worst that life could throw at him and he had survived. He would never pretend that he did not feel the pain and he certainly bore the scars to show the lasting effects of his suffering. But he had come through everything before. He would come through this now. It would just take time.

He reached the doorway and rang the bell. He ran a quick hand through his hair and straightened his tie. Just my nerves, he thought. Then the door opened and he found himself face to face with a woman. Though he had never seen her before, he recognized her large brown eyes.

"Mrs. Chandler? My name is Templeton Peck. I, umm, was hoping that I could speak with you. About Allison."

**__**

Fini


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